


The Play's the Thing (Wherein I'll Catch the Conscience of the King)

by someillplanetreigns



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (wherein the identity issues are Sigyn not knowing her new crush is her old crush), Confronting Trauma, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Frigga's complicity in concealing Loki's heritage, Genderfluid Loki, I wanted to think about why Loki might write his real trauma in such a melodramatic style, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki disguised, Multi, Other, Precognition, Smut, Temporarily Unrequited Love, The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard, Theoric is Lady Loki, Trauma Recovery, archivist!Sigyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someillplanetreigns/pseuds/someillplanetreigns
Summary: It's been nearly a year since Loki died on Svartalfheim. It's not like Sigyn really has a right to mourn - he didn't even know she existed. But now, apparently, there's going to be a play about him, and she can't see that ending well. If only the woman writing it weren't so attractive...Loki has big plans. He's going to learn more about his origins; he's going to tell his story in his own way; he's going to put his time with the Mad Titan far, far behind him, and he's going to do exactly as he wants. Sigyn is a means to end in all this. But you know what they say about best laid schemes...
Relationships: Frigga | Freyja & Loki (Marvel), Lady Loki/Sigyn, Loki/Sigyn (Marvel)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

Sigyn yawned. A gaping, inelegant yawn that she revelled in because no one could see her. With her feet up on the highly dignified librarian seat – which shoes were definitely not supposed to go on – it was an easy action to drop her chin onto her knees. She scrubbed her eyes and peered at the two books open in front of her again, as though the words might have rearranged themselves whilst she wasn’t looking. She wouldn’t put it past this pair.

“Well, one of you is definitely wrong,” she said aloud. The two almanacs supposedly detailed the same scrying spell – except they disagreed on multiple fundamental details.

She tugged her notebook closer again, jotted a quick calculation under all the other scored out ones already spread across the page. She groaned. “Or you’re both wrong and both right and it’s going to take me all night to tease you apart. Why can’t you just –”

She cut off abruptly, self-conscious, and jerked her gaze up as the library doors swung open.

Asgard’s royal archives did not normally have visitors even at the main library’s busiest hours (which usually meant half a dozen people at most), so for someone to be here after the dinner hour, when it was already pitch-black outside... that was unheard of. And Sigyn didn’t even recognise the woman now standing in the doorway.

“Can I help you?” Sigyn asked, sheepishly lowering her feet to the floor.

“I have been given permission to consult the royal archives,” the visitor said, holding up a folded and sealed document as she approached. “For research purposes.”

The doors closed silently behind her as she came to a stop in front of Sigyn’s desk. Sigyn took the proffered document, and to her surprise saw that the seal was the Allfather’s own. There was an office that would issue these, normally; in her time at least, the Allfather had never issued a pass himself.

The woman’s name, apparently, was Theoric. It didn’t ring any bells. And apparently...

“You’re writing a play?”

“Yes.”

Now that she was right in front of Sigyn’s desk, Sigyn realised that the initial impression that she’d got of her, which was that she was very tall, didn’t even begin to cover it. Sigyn rarely found herself to be towered over by another woman, but it was clear that this woman would easily achieve that. She must have been taller than most men, even on Asgard. Her long legs were particularly apparent in the breeches and high boots she wore – not clothing unheard of for women, but certainly unusual. Oh, and she was _beautiful_. Long black hair left loose, sculpted features, and glass green eyes which were currently looking down at Sigyn with a detached hauteur.

“What’s it about?”

“The lost prince. It is to be called _The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard_.”

Sigyn just about managed to stomp on any reaction she might have had to that, though Theoric still gave her a narrow look.

“Are you going to be playing the prince?” she deflected.

“No,” Theoric said, as though it were an absurd suggestion. “I shall be holding auditions. I’m the writer. Hence why I need to research. And the director, of course.”

“Oh, right.” Theoric was still looking at her like she was being unimaginably dense. Sigyn couldn’t see why it had been such a shocking thing to say. “It’s just because – well, surely you get told you look like him?”

Theoric’s mouth twisted. “I cannot say anyone has ever made such an observation until now.”

Sigyn wasn’t quite sure she believed that. It was more than the physical features. It was something... less tangible. Probably exactly the thing that made Sigyn ever so slightly weak at the knees as she got to her feet.

“Where would you like to start?” she asked, picking up her ring of keys.

Theoric’s gaze was intense. “The beginning,” she said. “What do you have from when the Allfather was at war with Jotunheim?”

Sigyn felt a rush go through her. “This way,” she directed, trying her best to hide her excitement. _That_ was why Theoric had a pass straight from the Allfather. They were going into the Ultra-Restricted Section (not an official name – the senior archivist, a man who seemed to have worked here so long his very skin had gone papery, would chastise her for calling it that, but it was the most accurate term for it and that was that). Junior archivists like Sigyn were strictly not allowed entry to the Ultra-Restricted Section except on the most official of official business – which, apparently, Theoric was.

She tried to refrain from skipping her way down the dim passageway between the shelves, towards the dense, heavily bolted door, carved of a potent blend of protective woods – oak, juniper and rowan. It did occur to Sigyn that it was strange that this woman, who needed such very high-security resources, would come _now_ , rather than a time when the senior archivist could attend. But asking anything about it would risk Theoric deciding it was the senior archivist she needed, and Sigyn would lose what might be her only chance to glean something of a knowledge she (not without a sizeable serving of guilt) hungered for.

But Theoric broached the subject herself, in a sideways fashion: “Are you always here this late?” Her glance at Sigyn was sidelong, too.

“Every day apart from my day off. We close at midnight, and I’m the last shift.”

“All alone?”

She focused on the complex system for opening the door to cover being slightly unnerved by the question. “People don’t normally come to the archives after dinner,” was her only answer. She left out that people rarely came to the archives at all. It was a lonely job, in some ways, but Sigyn didn’t mind it; it meant she could study at her desk. And be left in peace with her thoughts. And she had plenty of friends outside.

The first step to opening the door was a series of three locks. Each had to be turned with precision – one by two and a third rotations, one by exactly one quarter only, and the third in one fast full circle and then a slow circle in the opposite direction – and in the right sequence. Doing so clicked open a panel to reveal a small obsidian screen, against which Sigyn held Theoric’s pass. There was a musical hum as the seal and signature were both scanned. Theoric was holding her breath. Sigyn was too.

There was a heavy click, and then, with a rush of stale air, the door swung inwards. They both exhaled in relief. _Didn’t botch that, thank the Norns_.

The archives were a complex structure, almost as old as the vaults, and were the only other part of the palace save the vaults with so much magic built into the very walls. When you walked through its doors, you were met with a semi-cultivated forest of shelves, crammed with mostly books, but some folios and boxes of papers, all catalogued in a bizarre runic system that it took years of highly arcane training to learn, and even more to accurately use. The near-impossibility of finding your way through the labyrinth the shelves created, let alone finding the item you wanted, made the archivists essential. Past these shelves, around the edges of the room, were dotted heavy doors like the one Sigyn and Theoric had just passed through. The sum total of what was behind all these doors comprised what Sigyn called the Ultra-Restricted Section, spread across a dozen locations. The layout of materials was wholly different behind each door. Some were well-sized rooms lined with more shelves. One just contained a single chest of magical wood, sealed with yet more protections, with barely space to stand in front of it. Sigyn had only seen behind each door once, at her orientation almost a century ago. The senior archivist had opened each door and shown her the layout, standing so close he was almost in contact with her the whole time, silently reminder her that these were not _her_ materials (he had probably wanted to loom over her, but he wasn’t tall enough), and then swiftly moved her on. She had, at least, remembered that this one was the one with the flight of stairs.

Lanterns lining the narrow staircase flickered to life as they stepped over the threshold. They gave a hazy, orangey light that left considerable shadow, particularly where the stone steps curved round a corner further up. The air was stale and chill.

“Up we go,” Sigyn said, rather pointlessly. She moved up the stairs first, leading the way. There was only room for them to walk single file. Sigyn trailed a hand against the wall to keep herself steady.

“He really didn’t want anyone coming in here, did he?” Theoric said.

“The Allfather?”

A hum of confirmation from behind her.

“This is definitely one of the trickier ones,” she acknowledged.

“And now we know what he wanted to conceal.”

Sigyn felt a familiar prickling deep in her chest that she knew had nothing to do with the tomb-like feeling of the stairwell.

They had rounded the turn on the stairs now and reached another door. Except it didn’t look like a door. It was intricately carved with runes which both identified the contents ( _The Jotun Wars)_ and sealed them, but there was no apparent way to open it. Sigyn carefully traced a new rune over the carving for ‘lock’. The rune shifted and rearranged itself, and suddenly there was a keyhole.

She thought she heard Theoric mutter, “So dramatic,” under her breath as she pressed the key into the lock.

Finally, their last barrier swung open. They both peered in eagerly. The room gave them plenty of room to move around, but was not dauntingly large – it would have fit well with Sigyn’s modest suite of rooms in town, given an armchair or two. The three walls facing them were entirely taken up by shelves densely lined with bound volumes, folios and bundles of papers. The centre of the room was dominated by an enormous black table, long, unusually high, and complete with a cushioned, V-shaped book rest to support an open document. 

“How far back are you going?” Sigyn asked, eyeing the classification marks denoting works on the shelves. “Are you looking for any of the political background? Asgardian-Jotun relations and the causes of the war?”

“Not now. I’m looking for anything about Odin finding the prince in the temple,” Theoric replied, slightly husky.

Was she awed by what they were about to look at? Sigyn was. She was glad Theoric wasn’t interested in the war itself – other writers had analysed and condensed the source material into more readable accounts of the war (though Sigyn would have to concede that if there weren’t a subject of such specific personal interest pressing her attention, seeing how those histories compared to the raw materials would be endlessly fascinating to her); what they were looking for was one of Asgard’s great secrets. Sigyn felt a delicious chill run down her spine, quickly followed by another sharp twist in her chest.

She walked along the shelves, following the classifications clockwise until she was well along the right-hand wall. Here the runes were more promising. She looked closely, finger hovering just above the shelf as she scanned the contents, until – “Oh.”

“What?” Theoric demanded. “There is _something_ isn’t there?”

“Yes.” Sigyn pulled out the slender portfolio which had caught her eye. “It’s bizarre that this is here.”

“That _what’s_ here?”

She carried the sheaf of papers to the cradle and carefully opened it, letting Theoric see. “Letters.”

“From –” Theoric seemed to stumble over the question.

“This is the Allmother’s handwriting.”

Theoric’s eyes were strangely fixed on it. “I thought – I mean, are royal correspondence normally included in these thematic archives?”

“Sometimes; it’s a rather flimsy distinction. But normally only correspondence from much longer ago... I actually requested to catalogue the Allmother’s letters. I haven’t heard back about it yet – some bureaucrat’s probably still shuffling the paperwork around to arrange it, even this far into the Reconstruction...”

It had been almost a year since the attack on Asgard, since the Allmother’s death, since... So much loss. National mourning. Major reconstruction of the palace and surrounding area. And Sigyn’s private loss that she had no right to grieve at all, kept tucked tight in the cavern of her chest against her heart.

“So how is this here?” Theoric’s eyes were still ranging over the elegant script – very large, the Allmother’s words unashamed to claim the page. It read: _Select correspondence of Odin Allfather, my husband, and myself, Frigga Allmother, at the time of the end of the Asgardian-Jotun war. For this is our history and our family. It will not be always concealed._

“I can only guess she put them here herself – I could probably confirm that by checking the access records...”

“Do that.” As soon as she said it, Theoric seemed to realise the commanding tone had been out of line. Her apologetic smile was dazzling. “I’m sorry. I care very deeply about my art.”

“And this will be going in the play?”

“Perhaps. It is important to get a full picture; the words should have more behind them than themselves.”

Sigyn reasoned that you could probably get away with being a bit eccentric when you looked like Theoric did.

Silently she turned over the first page of the collection. The first letter was dated as what Sigyn recognised as the last day of conflict in the war.

“That’s the Allfather’s writing. It looks original.”

Theoric, of course, would have no interest in the textual quality of archival materials. That wasn’t what she was here for.

She said, “You have to supervise me in here, I suppose?”

Sigyn gave her most apologetic look, not really feeling it at all. It was very important she played her cards right here. “I’m afraid the rules are very strict. We can’t risk any damage to the materials.”

Sigyn was slightly going against her usual principles, but this was – for more reasons than one – new territory. Unlike the senior archivist, Sigyn didn’t normally like hovering over people’s shoulders whilst they consulted their documents. She’d keep an eye on them, of course – that was her job – but she gave them breathing room. But she’d never accompanied anyone to the Ultra-Restricted Section before; this was much higher security. And given who Theoric was researching... Sigyn was maybe letting the personal intervene. But it _was_ higher security, she defended herself to herself once again.

Theoric was looking down at her (Sigyn really was not used to being so pronouncedly looked down at by another woman), assessing her.

“And if you need any assistance with the documents, of course, you’ll need me here,” she added in her most professional tone. When that still didn’t seem to be selling it, she took a measured step back to give Theoric some sense of privacy with the letters.

She held Sigyn in her gaze for another long moment, almost as though she were cataloguing her the way Sigyn herself would catalogue a new acquisition, and then turned silently back to the sheaf of papers in the cradle.

Sigyn, ashamed but unable to resist, went up on her toes and carefully tilted her head to read over Theoric’s shoulder.

 _My Own One,_ (eww, Sigyn thought)

_We have won. Such small words to express such an immense thing. It hardly seems real. We have lost so many. So many friends. So many foes, too, which is a source of such conflicted feeling to me now. I remember, dimly, as though it were someone else, that I used to love war. Crave it. It was once the only time I felt alive, when I smelt blood and tasted victory. I hardly recognise that man now. The monster that I was long before I knew you. I live always in fear of some shadow of him returning and blotting out our sun. I do not believe I found him today, and am glad of it. I detested the bloodshed every moment I was here. I pray now it is over. That this will be the end of it. I hope I have found a way to assure that._

_I am afraid, Frigga, that this has all been preamble. Much-felt preamble, I won’t deny, but there was a purpose of this epistle beyond giving a personal relation of our victory and my own feelings upon it. You will hardly believe what I have to tell you. I must ask you to take the news with as measured a response as you can, and, above all, to tell no one. This must be kept a perfect secret._

_Frigga, when we reached the outskirts of Utgard, we found a Jotun temple there. And within it was a baby. Laufey’s heir, Frigga. Abandoned. A runt, a tiny thing; the right size for one of our own young. The Frost Giants consider such under-sized babes curses, a sign of displeasure from their gods. They submit them to exposure, leave them at the mercy of the frozen clime as a sacrifice to appease the angered gods. Laufey no doubt blamed the infant for the tide of war turning against him. His heir was meant to die. But I found him first._

_I know you will see what I am building to; please bear with me until you have read all. Frigga, the child possesses seiðr. I lifted him and he shifted. I suspect it was a response to the temperature of my own body; I readily accept you will be better informed in answering such questions. Fair skin, green eyes, tufts of black hair. He could pass for one of our own people. As, I will not insult you by pretending you will not have already deduced, it is my intention for him to do. Consider it: he is the heir to a kingdom hostile to Asgard and the other realms; to raise him as one of us, educated in our more civilised ways, would herald a new future for Jotunheim and its place within the Nine when he succeeds to his father’s throne (aided by Asgard’s backing, of course). _

_I know what I ask is no small thing. But could you find it in your heart – great and good enough to love the gruff and battle-haggard Odin Borson – to raise this child as our own? I have a way to ensure the realms will believe you to have carried a babe these last months; announcing this arrival as a new birth will be an added celebration to the victory celebrations. I know I ask too much. But I find I must ask it nevertheless._

_The babe will precede me to Asgard; I must remain here a few days more to negotiate peace terms, and I will be too surrounded to safely convey him in secrecy. I also fear he must eat, and none here have aught to offer him. Heimdall will take him from the Bifrost to the palace. When I return, and have struggled through the fanfare, we can further discuss our course of action. Please do not be too angry, Frigga. We do what we must, as Allfather and Allmother, do we not? If you will consent, I will send the infant to Asgard before dawn. I am sorry to ask this of you._

_I truly cannot wait to return to you and to Thor._

_With love, my darling one,_

_Odin_

Then, scrawled beneath in a sloppier hand, but still the same handwriting:

_P.S. He just laughed. The baby. My horse puffed hot air on him. Despite his time exposed in the cold, I think he will recover well._

Theoric turned around. Sigyn didn’t have time to settle herself on her feet again; she was still stretched up on her toes when Theoric looked at her.

“Do you need me to turn the page?” Sigyn asked rather sheepishly.

“If you would.”

She did so, trying to be quick whilst still being careful of the precious document.

The next page contained just a single line in between the address and signature. Merely looking at it amounted to reading it.

_Odin,_

_Send the baby._

_Frigga_

“You really are remorselessly nosey, aren’t you?”

“These are very high-security documents,” Sigyn said, as levelly as she could. “I have a duty of care to them.”

Theoric raised a derisive brow.

“And, well, it is fascinating, isn’t it? Prince Loki’s story. I mean, that’s why you’re writing a play about it after all...”

All the response she got was a tart, “Would you be so good as to turn to the next letter?” 

Sigyn did so, and trooped back to her position a few paces away. Theoric did not turn round to look at her again, but Sigyn was certain she was fully aware she shifted herself into a position she could still see. _Extenuating circumstances_ , she reminded herself.

This letter was again in the Allfather’s hand.

_Frigga,_

_I am utterly at a loss. I cannot fathom what point you are trying to make. Please, enlighten me. If you are angry that I proposed we bring up the Jotun infant, why take him with you in leaving Asgard? What are you hoping to achieve in running to Vanaheim? And such a reduced train? But still taking Thor? I wholly admit I do not understand what it is you are endeavouring to do. You know I will be engaged on Jotunheim for some days more; I cannot leave until peace is successfully brokered. Please, tell me why my family has departed to Vanaheim without a word. Why did I have to hear this news from Heimdall? (Who apparently you have sworn to secrecy; I would greatly appreciate being enlightened on that score too.) Frigga, at least let us talk about the Jotun babe. What is the purpose of this flight? _

_Yours, still,_

_Odin_

With only a look, Theoric summoned her to come forward and turn to the next letter. Sigyn wondered what she was making of these letters. Was she getting good material for her play? Her face was a paradox – it was expressive, in that it was clearly she was feeling _something_ , but the emotion itself was totally closed off, resistant to categorisation.

The next letter ran:

_Odin,_

_You ask why I have come to Vanaheim – to my own home, I might add, so you certainly need not fret. The most immediate answer, as surely you can see, is that it keeps our options open. If we were, ultimately, to decide to present Loki – His name is Loki. Perhaps I should have begun with that. But Loki is his name, so you must stop referring to him as ‘the Jotun babe’. You chose Thor’s name; I felt it was my turn. And I always liked ‘Loki’. As I was saying, if we do ultimately decide to present Loki, for whatever period of time, as our son, it will doubtless be a smoother process if we can deliver a pretence of my having partaken in lying-in. The fewer eyes on this moment the better, surely. It gives us time to make reasonable decisions as parents._

_More than that, however, I must question if you had given any thought to the actual process of raising a baby, much less a baby with nascent magical abilities? So far, certainly, Loki’s ability to maintain a form that passes as Asgardian is truly astounding, but until we can fully ascertain what is safe for him, did you really think he could be surrounded by the raucous crowd that thronged round Thor every moment after his birth? You might not recall the absurd arguments I was involved in simply to be allowed to breastfeed my own son, but I do. And we must be glad that I won that battle; could a wet-nurse be safely procured for Loki? (I have made extensive observations and carefully monitored him myself, and fortunately my milk appears to give him everything he needs, thank the Norns.) Could the tests I have had to take to work out the right temperature for his bath be explained to a nurse? (That was a terrifying process. Fortunately, the answer seems to be that it doesn’t much matter; cold water can do him no harm, but he prefers his water warm, curiously, and that does him no harm either.) These things cannot be carried out in the constant scrutiny of Asgard’s palace._

_You ask me if I am angry. The truth is that I am angry, though not for the reasons you seem to believe. I am angry that anyone would threaten Loki. I am angry that Laufey left him to die. I am angry that you never seemed to consider the danger he could be placed in in Asgard. I am angry that his unique needs seemed never to cross your mind when you handed him off. And don’t you dare interpret that as me saying you shouldn’t have taken him from that place. Of course you couldn’t have left him there. I would never have forgiven you if you had. But I am angry, and I feel it is my right to be. _

_I feel as though I have given birth again. Is that not strange? When I birthed Thor and he was placed into my arms, I looked at him with such instant love and wonder. All that pain and struggle and horror – you could never imagine – and there he was, my son, living and breathing and tied to me by bonds inseverable. I thought the pain might have been part of it in that moment, that of course to bring something so wonderful into this world there would have to be struggle. But from the moment I first lifted Loki up, I felt exactly the same. The intensity of that moment when I first beheld him. I loved him, instantly. I was struck to the heart by the force of it. I had not birthed him at all, but every part of me in that single moment irrevocably claimed him as my own. I will not allow him to be taken from me now, so do not suggest such a thing. I am being selfish, I know. But he is my son and I am his mother._

_And I know that you are being selfish in some way, too, though I cannot yet glean how. A part of me feels I should tell you that your plan is foolhardy, riddled with logical flaws. Why do you suggest we raise him as our son, pretending he is Asgardian, when surely it would do more for your proposed cause to acknowledge him as Jotun from the start, to prove that they are not the enemy by nature but rather raised to be so? My own selfishness would grapple with that alternative, I am ashamed to say. I want him to know I am his mother. He is my son and I want the right to be his mother. But we cannot keep his heritage from him forever. He needs to know who he is and see it is not a thing to be kept hidden, not a thing to be ashamed of. He needs to know he is Jotun and also our son. This, Odin, is the point which we need to discuss when you return. What, precisely, we tell Loki, and what, precisely, we tell the Nine Realms. _

_You see, Odin, I do have some sense of why you might be so determined to raise Loki as our son. Why you over-emphasise the ease with which he might be able to become King of Jotunheim (how many children does Laufey have? What is Loki’s place amongst them? Is he legitimate? How is Jotun kingship even passed?). I do not know precisely why, no, but you cannot make such a throwaway remark as telling me you would have a way to ensure the realms believed something which factually did not happen and not expect me to begin to speculate. Though I have speculated for some time, Odin. One day you will have to tell me the full history of your time as a warrior king. The man you were before you became the man I know. One day you will have to tell me what happened to the Valkyries. Not the official version; the truth. I see its effects, you know, even without knowing the cause. It twists you with guilt, makes you at times wrathful, even rash, in your desire to prevent whatever it was recurring. One day you will have to tell me everything. But for now I will only say that you cannot treat Loki as the atonement of your sin, whatever that sin may be; he is your son, not your penance. You must treat him as such. _

_He’s a precious boy. He’s very fussy, but he does like lots of attention and to be held. Getting him to sleep through the night will be much more of a challenge than it was with Thor, I expect. Although who can blame him? The poor boy must be frightened he’ll be left completely once again. He does certainly possess considerable magical potential. I trust that, as he is the second son, not your heir, and of course, since any magical mishaps would endanger his entire position within Asgard, risking the revelation of his original heritage, I will be permitted to teach him as I was not allowed to teach Thor? My noxious Vanir influences might be allowed a little leeway with my younger boy, who will be king of another realm and not Asgard._

_Thor himself is well, and quite delighted with Loki. He has been allowed to give him a cuddle under strict supervision. I was concerned that the notion of ‘being gentle’ might be a challenge for him – and an issue for both Loki and him, if Loki froze him in fright – but Thor is clearly understanding more and more of what is said, and has certainly been very careful so far. I have told him I am very proud of him. And Loki was quite calm; he laughs when Thor puts on little shows for him with his toys. They seem a well-matched pair. You must return soon to see them both. And me._

_I will end here. Think on what I have said. We will speak when you return. Come to us on Vanaheim._

_Yours,_

_Frigga_

Sigyn was moving to turn to the next letter before Theoric had asked her to. She had to catch herself and glance at her to check she’d finished reading. Theoric’s fisted were clenched and she was breathily through her nose, long regular breaths.

“Are you –”

“Yes I’m ready for the next one.”

 _That wasn’t what I was going to ask,_ Sigyn thought, but she didn’t say anything.

She obediently flipped to the next letter.

“It’s the last one,” she said, turning it over just to make sure.

Theoric simply nodded.

The last letter was short, too. The correspondence seemed to have ended quite abruptly.

_Dearest Frigga,_

_I will be with you tomorrow. We will discuss it then. Loki is a good name. I am pleased you have bonded with him. And pleased you are able to provide for his... unique needs. Thank you._

_He is charming, I will admit that. All this time away has made me fond, I suspect. He will mend so much. But we will discuss this anon._

_Until tomorrow,_

_Odin_

“That’s it?” Sigyn said without thinking. “It just... stops? We don’t know what they actually discussed, why they chose not to tell him at all, why – ” She cut off. Theoric was looking at her. She didn’t know how to describe the way in which she was looking at her, but it felt like being sucked into a black hole. She felt self-conscious, defenceless. She bit her tongue.

“Would you like to read back over anything? Or take some notes?” ~~~~

Theoric shook her head. She was stony-faced, unreadable.

Sigyn gathered up the bundled of papers from the cradle, carefully closed the leather casing around them and returned the folder to its place on the shelf. She paused after replacing it, as still and pensive as Theoric herself.

Steeling herself, she said, “What are you trying to do with this play?”

She turned back to Theoric, who, utterly unexpectedly, _grinned_. It was not a pleasant grin. Her teeth glinted wolfishly in the uncanny light. “I am going to rehabilitate a monster.”

“Loki was not a monster.” She said it before she could stop herself. She was definitely not supposed to take that kind of tone with authorised archive users.

Theoric was clearly surprised.

“I think _that_ ,” she pointed to the folder Sigyn had just put back, “makes quite clear –”

“That he was Jotun. Which everyone knows anyway. That’s not the same as being a monster.”

Now Theoric curious, and also, Sigyn thought, disdainful.

“You think he did nothing wrong?”

“I didn’t say that. But he’s not a monster. If that’s what your play’s trying to say –”

Glass green eyes slid up and down Sigyn, taking her in. She had the sense Theoric was trying to place her. When at last she did speak though, all she said was, “Thank you, Miss –?”

“Sigyn.” She knew she sounded sour, but she couldn’t really help it.

“Thank you _Sigyn_. I believe that’s enough for today. If you would be so good as to escort me out now.”

Sigyn nodded, wordlessly leading the way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for allusion to torture and discussion of post-traumatic sexual problems

Loki had never imagined he would write a play. The very notion of it was absurd.

The idea had not been born of desire for self-aggrandisement, whatever it may appear. The statue, he could admit, had been – but who could blame him? It was owed to him, really. He had died for Asgard. He had a disfiguring scar on his chest _and_ on his back to prove it. It was hardly his fault if the death hadn’t stuck.

He still didn’t know _why_ it hadn’t. His best guess was that, ever victim to the torments of the Norns, they simply weren’t ready to give up toying with him yet, like a cat that refuses to deal the mouse the final blow, knowing it will end her fun. He suspected, too, that his Jotun physiology had some part in it. Jotuns probably stabbed one another through the chest as a form of greeting, so of course they would have adapted to survive such brutal treatment.

There had been a lot of blood though. Repugnant, really. Not pleasant to wake up to. And he hadn’t expected to wake up at all.

He found himself being increasingly flippant about the whole ordeal as time went on. He supposed it was easier than confronting it head on. And he had only himself to recall the event to, so he may as well amuse himself with it.

No, the first time the notion of _The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard_ crossed his mind, it was not about lauding himself. Indeed, he had not intended the project to go ahead. It had, in its first conception, been a convenient cover to get at something he wanted: the truth of his own story.

In the time since Frigga’s death, he had read every one of her letters. She had carefully preserved all her correspondences, and he had gone through them meticulously. Not just those that related to him, but everything. Every lingering trace of her, every reminder and every way to recreate her as a shadow, to blur the harshness of her absence. It had been an awful time. He’d cursed the Norns for not letting him die as he’d intended.

The distractions and also the luxuries of ruling had helped somewhat. He was kept busy by Asgard’s needs, and was able to indulge himself in the quest for something resembling comfort. But there were certain agonies that he could not long escape.

What he had not found amongst Frigga’s letters was anything that touched on the fact that he was not her son. That was perhaps unsurprising; such a vital secret must be kept as secure as possible. She likely never committed it to writing. But still he longed for more details, for the specifics he had never received from her nor Odin.

Technically, he, as the Allfather, had the right to stroll into the archives whenever he wished. But therein lay a problem. The Allfather should know all about this – he had lived it, after all – and Loki did not. How would he explain not knowing the precise document he needed to look for? No, he needed a cover.

 _That_ was how he had first conceived of _The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard_. He had thought first of a biography, but it was then that the idea of carrying the work to fruition as a way to win the favour he had always been denied by Asgard’s people had struck. There really was nothing Loki loved more than using a single stone to kill as many birds as possible.

To the archives he thus determined to go, suitably disguised. If you could call it a disguise. He wore a disguise almost constantly now, appearing before everyone as Odin. The appearance he chose to pursue his own history was far more comfortable in every sense; it was _him_ (or _her_ , or _they_ – the specifics of that linguistic distinction had never seemed to bear the significances of connection to Loki that they were apparently intended to) in a way which no other truly was; he lived it rather than wore it. He had to choose a name, of course; he settled on Theoric. It served the purpose. Suitably theatrical.

He chose a time at night when most would be at dinner. It was ideal for two reasons. Firstly, it meant he could abandon his performance as the Allfather easily. Unless there was an occasion necessitating his presence, Odin Allfather dined alone in his rooms most nights; he was an old man, everyone acknowledged: he surely needed the rest, after everything. Secondly, it meant the senior archivist would not be there. The senior archivist would be over-involved, would bat questions back and forth between the bureau, Theoric and the Allfather, and altogether make the process as difficult as possible out of pure, geriatric spite. Loki could not abide his meddlesome, whispering voice interrogating him, particularly over such a sensitive subject. No, much better to face a junior archivist whom Theoric could intimidate and charm into submission.

The junior archivist in question, it turned out, was a red-haired woman he found sitting entirely inappropriately at the desk when he came in. She would proffer no such issues that the senior archivist would.

He had seen her before, but never paid her much attention. Confronted with her now, he would admit – though it was just a passing observation – that she was pretty. Her hair was what first drew the eye. Even in the rather bland light of the archive, it had a metallic gleam, glinting copper, gold and bronze. She also had quick, light blue eyes, sharp features, and a very expressive mouth. When she stood, Loki observed that though her dress was very plain – a simple navy garment in durable fabric – its long, cuffed sleeves and neat cinch at the waist made it passably stylish. Her shoes were hideous though, thick-soled and functional. Yet the gap between the hem of her skirt and those heavy shoes did reveal lovely ankles. 

Loki wasn’t here for that, though. He had important business to be getting on with. Much as she was preferable to the senior archivist – really, infinitely preferable – he truly desired solitude for what he was about to do. The thought of what he might discover – or, and would that be worse, _not_ discover? – was making him tense, and her polite interest was not helping.

He hardly knew how to respond when she said he looked like himself. As though it were obvious. And in a way it was obvious, perhaps too obvious – no one else ever made the connection. The things that differentiated this appearance from his usual were subtle yet usually insurmountable for the observer. Trust his luck to run into someone who wouldn’t shrink from the connection _now_ of all times. Still, she didn’t seem to be making too much of it. They were moving amongst the shelves now. He dug his nails into his palms.

He was sure it was only the durability of Jotun skin that had stopped him from drawing blood by the time he had read everything. He wanted to lash out at the buzzing, nosey red-head, but he needed to keep his cover. And then she had the audacity to speak to him. 

“What are you trying to do with this play?”

He couldn’t harm her. There was no easy way to cover it up. As Allfather, he was the one who’d have to deal with the hysteria surrounding a disappearance. So Loki did what he always did in these situations: he lashed out at himself.

“I am going to rehabilitate a monster.”

It was the truth. It was, at least, what he would attempt. His monstrous self, the people’s hero.

His next thought would have been of Frigga. After what he had read – _Norns_ , he never dreamt it would be _her_ he would find here, her hand, her words, her sentiments... After what he had read, his thoughts could only go to her. But the archivist interrupted those thoughts in a startling flash of defiance.

“Loki was not a monster.”

The shock of it allowed Loki to push his emotion into one of the many dark and cavernous spaces in his mind, to be drawn out again the moment he was alone. For now: “I think _that_ ,” he said pointedly, indicating the folder the girl had just put back, “makes quite clear –”

“That he was Jotun,” she interrupted tartly. “Which everyone knows anyway. That’s not the same as being a monster.”

He sneered at her. What was this girl? Royal kiss-arse? Could be, working in the archive. Did she think she knew him? Contemptible.

“You think he did nothing wrong?”

“I didn’t say that. But he’s not a monster. If that’s what your play’s trying to do –”

He regarded her more closely. Who _was_ she? He’d seen her, and never paid her much mind. Should he have? Why was she jumping to his defence? It immediately made him wary. He needed to leave. He had too much to dwell on.

“Thank you, Miss –?”

“Sigyn.” The name was unfamiliar. He was unsure if that was reassuring or worrying. His thoughts were tugging back to that shadowed space in his mind where he had secreted the roiling emotion, though, and he wanted to be alone more than he wanted to know more of her.

“Thank you _Sigyn_. I believe that’s enough for today. If you would be so good as to escort me out now.”

He thought upon what he had read long into the night. In the silence of the Allfather’s chambers he paced and fidgeted with his thoughts.

Despite being conscious of the circumstances of Frigga’s marriage, he had never really dwelt on them. It had never crossed his mind that to her, his not being Asgardian might be... He could not think the word _good_. He hesitated even to think of it as something that might have distinguished him from Thor in some positive way for her, but... But that seemed to be the subtext. Was there any way he could find to deny that? He looked thoroughly.

Frigga had loved Thor. He knew that. She’d loved Odin too, arranged marriage as it had been. But that her love for her foundling son should be somehow singled out precisely _because_ of what he was... Was such a thing possible?

No. It was preposterous. And yet...

And yet there were things that Loki remembered. He had always spent more time with their mother than Thor did. He had come to regard that as Frigga trying to compensate for Thor’s greater popularity, but... But there was the memory, clear as a bell, of Frigga putting an arm around him as they both watched Thor be swallowed by a crowd cheering at yet another heroic success, and her words: “We have one another, don’t we Loki?”

On his worst days, he had interpreted that as implying that Thor might have been preferable, but he could be settled for. On better days, he took it as his mother trying to offer herself as substitute for the wealth of adoration Thor received, without looking like she was pitying him.

But now, tentatively, Loki tried the memory in a new guise. His mother harbouring deeper, more complex, and far, far darker feelings than he had imagined. Bitterness. Resentment. Possessiveness. He tried to imagine himself as the son she would jealously guard as her own, the one she could hold tight as she had never been allowed with Thor, who was heir first and her son second.

His mind rebelled against the idea. His senses, though, the recollections of the way she would hold him, reach for him, look at him... 

Thor’s words to him in the boat on Svartalfheim. “You think you alone were loved of mother? You had her tricks, but I had her trust.”

The notion of Thor being jealous was almost inconceivable. But why say it? Loki had never thought Frigga loved him more than Thor. The thought could only have come from Thor himself.

 _You had her tricks, but I had her trust._ Thor had had her trust, but not her confidence. Sharing in Frigga’s magics meant being close to her, meant she had confided part of herself in him. Much as Loki knew the love that existed between Thor and their mother, Thor had never had that in the way he had.

If only he could talk to her. But he’d lost that chance now. And with his final words he’d...

Loki finally slid into bed, curled into a ball and tried to sleep.

Sigyn spent her next couple of shifts wondering if Theoric would be returning. She had checked the access records; she would have something to tell her if she did return. And presumably what she had was not enough information for a whole play? But if she did come back, there was no guarantee it would be during Sigyn’s time on the desk. That one brief meeting might be all.

Part of why Sigyn felt so curious to see Theoric again was the simple fact that things had been rather repetitive lately. The night shift was always sparse, so any archive-user Sigyn interacted with – almost always harassed-looking scholars – was a spark of excitement. Sigyn normally focussed on her own studies whilst she worked, picking through scrying systems, but that had run almost to a halt in the last week; she was struggling to reconcile the two conflicting sources, and she was having to wade back through the development of each to try to isolate and make a judgement on the deviation. It was the sort of thing she would have taken to the Allmother in the past and received an answer almost immediately. She was on her own with it now, and floundering. Under those circumstances, it was nice to have a change in the routine (even if said change seemed rather frosty and eccentric). But Sigyn was also secretly hoping she would see Theoric again to hear more about this proposed play. She was both apprehensive and curious. If she were being completely honest with herself, she might find that Theoric and the play were a way to feel somehow close to Loki.

 _This is going to have to stop at some point_ , she tried to tell herself. _He’s dead now; that should be the end of it._

But she’d thought him dead before, and that certainly hadn’t been the end of it then. Why should this time be any different? _Well maybe if you stopped fanning the flames..._

On the third day of this speculation, the door did swing open and Theoric sauntered in. She seemed warmer today – she smiled at Sigyn as she approached.

“Hello again.”

“Hello.” Sigyn gave a small smile back, trying not to look too happy as she reached for her keys.

“Did you find out if it was the Allmother who put those letters there?”

“It was. And the deposit looks to have been very private.” Sigyn had had an interesting shift pouring over the records after Theoric had left the last time. “The senior archivist didn’t go in with her. There’s actually not any record that there _was_ a deposit, though there was only one time she could have made it.”

Sigyn took great joy in sharing the information she had uncovered. She’d told her friend Ingrid about the Allmother making an undisclosed addition to the archive, but her interest in it had been more polite than anything. It wasn’t fascinating to her the way it was to Sigyn. Telling Theoric though... She got to watch the information land with satisfaction. Theoric was quiet for a long time, processing this exciting news. So expressive and yet so unreadable.

When at last she spoke, she said: “She just went in unaccompanied by an archivist?”

“Yes.”

“Is that permitted?”

Not really the response Sigyn had been expecting. A little rude, frankly. “If you’re a member of the royal family. It is their archive.”

Theoric pressed her lips together and said no more. At least her initial reaction had been satisfying. 

Sigyn made herself smile. She asked, “What can I help you with today?”

Theoric seemed to shake herself, and a pleasant smile dropped smoothly into place. “Nothing in the archive today.” With no more ado, she turned and dragged a lumpy armchair from the side of the room to in front of the desk and flung herself into it, hooking one long leg over the arm. “This evening, you are my research.”

“Me?” Sigyn asked awkwardly, still holding her keys. She waited for some explanation for the joke.

“A vital part of research is understanding the audience. What they already know, what preconceptions they come to the theatre with, that sort of thing.”

“And you think I’m someone you should consult about that?”

“I sense you have a unique insight into the subject matter.”

Sigyn sunk back into her own chair slowly. The shift in Theoric’s mood from last night was somewhat dizzying.

“I definitely wouldn’t say that. Far from it. Archival material I can help you with, but popular opinion... Why me? Surely there are much better people to ask? People who know more?”

Theoric waved a hand as though brushing Sigyn’s refutation aside. “Tell me, Sigyn: did you have much interaction with Prince Loki?”

“No. I doubt he had any idea who I was.” Her tone was not designed to invite further question. She couldn’t be rude to a visitor – especially not one the Allfather had favoured with special access permissions – but she didn’t consider it part of her job to offer up personal information to a perfect stranger.

“Ever speak to him?”

“No. So I’m really not the person to be coming to for information, I’m afraid.”

“You’d seen him in person though, being employed in the palace?”

“Yes. But we never spoke. The royal family would normally go through the senior archivist if they needed anything here. So...”

“And so, _as an outside observer_ ,” she emphasised the words, “what was your reaction when you learned that he was not Asgardian?”

Sigyn found herself almost dumbfounded that they were really doing this. Theoric had a warm, enticing tone, her glass green eyes attentive. But Sigyn was not swayed.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You were repulsed at first then,” Theoric said, her tone all honeyed understanding whilst something gleamed in her eyes. “Only what can be expected, really. I mean, a _Frost Giant_...”

“That is not what I meant.”

When Sigyn reflected on this later, it would be glaringly obvious that Theoric had deliberately baited her. Even in the moment she was aware of it. But the implication in any form that _anyone_ could think that _she_ could think...

“What I mean,” she said, “is that if you are going to make any more implications that he was a monster – because of his being Jotun or any other reason – then I have nothing at all to say to you, and if you don’t wish to use the archives this evening I will have to kindly ask you to leave.”

“Then tell me what message I should be sending.”

They started at each other for a long moment, neither giving any ground. Sigyn said finally: “Don’t you need to take notes or record what I say or something during this interrogation?”

Theoric smiled. “I have an excellent memory.”

She could tell Theoric saw victory. But Sigyn continued to weigh up her options.

Theoric leant forward, and with an air of gentle but sincere camaraderie said, “You can be honest with me. Just between us. For research.”

“Why do you need my opinion?”

“I already said – unique insight.” A beat, and then: “Your opinion seemed very strong last night.”

“Yes, well...” Sigyn looked down, closed her eyes for a moment, collected and heaved her heart into her mouth. “I suppose I was angry that it became some sort of scandalous gossip. I was so... defensive last night because I didn’t want your play perpetuating that.” She pressed her lips together, then added, “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“Sigyn,” Theoric said softly. “We have the same goal. You’re worried about what the play will depict. I want to get the story right. That’s why I want your insight.”

Sigyn looked down at her hands again, resting on the familiar wood of her desk. She sighed. Then she looked back up at Theoric and said, “Go on then.”

Theoric smiled. It was an echo of the wolf smile, but her eyes remained attentive, her expression open, as she asked: “So, you felt the gossip about Loki was unfair?”

Sigyn thought before answering. “I do understand why everyone was talking about it. It was shocking. But yes, I did think the way he was being talked about was unfair. As if he weren’t a real person.”

“Because he was a Frost Giant?”

“Yes. But more than that. People always talked about him like he was... I don’t know, some malcontent character. Two-dimensional. As though whatever interiority he had was just scheming and mischief and nothing else. It used to frustrate me when he was alive. It really upset me when he was dead. Made him seem even further gone.”

Theoric swung her leg down from the arm of the chair and rested her elbows on her knees, fixing Sigyn with another of those looks that made her feel like she was being catalogued.

In a tone betraying nothing but professional interest, she said, “But you were never his paramour?”

That startled an affronted laugh out of Sigyn. “No. And I don’t see how _that’s_ remotely relevant to your research.”

“But you wanted to be.”

“That _definitely_ isn’t relevant.”

Theoric was smiling, and it was certainly the wolf smile now. Sigyn was struck once more by the resemblance to Loki. The line of questioning felt even more discomfiting. She was ready to threaten her removal from the archive again when Theoric carried on.

“What is certainly relevant is how learning that the prince was a Frost Giant affected any sentiments you may, hypothetically, have had for him.”

“It didn’t.” She was firm. Her gaze didn’t drop, didn’t even waver. “And I am answering your questions about Loki, not about myself.”

Theoric’s eyes were gleaming with mirth. Her smile still had the faintest predatory trace. When she spoke though, it was to acquiesce to Sigyn’s rebuke. “So what did you think of him?”

Sigyn felt the urge to be careful, though surely it was hardly worth it now. Theoric had already ascertained something of her... well, what her friends would call a crush, and which Sigyn herself found it hard to find a name for. And Loki was dead; it hardly mattered now.

“I think he was brilliant,” she said at last. “He was so much more than he was given credit for. He did some very bad things, and I wouldn’t excuse those. But he was a whole and complicated and brilliant man. He deserved a lot more than what he got. He deserves to be properly mourned.” 

Theoric’s gazed was fixed on her in some kind of fascination, and something that Sigyn almost suspected was distrust.

She looked down at her hands again, scratching at a groove on the desk. “Like I was saying, probably not of much use for writing a play.”

“Other people don’t see that,” Theoric said finally. Her tone seemed inexplicably wary. “They don’t see what he did for Asgard. For the Nine realms. For the universe, in truth. They don’t see any tragedy. But you do. And I think you can help me make them see it.”

Things clicked into place. Theoric was in almost the same position as she herself – namely, hopelessly in love with Loki. Theoric might have actually been his lover, but now he was nothing but a dream for both of them. She wanted to write and put on this play to commemorate him, her vision of him which she felt no one else shared. Sigyn wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

She shook her head slowly. “Are you sure that’s what’s best?” she found herself asking.

“What do you mean?”

“Because people will watch _The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard_ and see dying as the greatest action of his life. I just don’t think his death should be something to celebrate.”

“There was heroism in the dying,” Theoric said. “That, at least, is something Asgardians respect. And he _did_ die. It is better to credit that heroism than to let his memory fade into the kind of misrepresentation you yourself have spoken of.”

Sigyn sighed. “People always saw him as a character more than a person. At least that’s how it seemed to me. Do you think actually making him a character will improve that?”

Theoric smiled again, but softer, less predatory. “I think he gave in to being a character in a lot of ways. What he’d want is to be at least given the privilege of being a more _favoured_ one. Besides,” she went on, “I think this is a long overdue opportunity to address his heritage. It was wrong for it to be spread as hearsay and gossip. In my play, written under royal commission, the truth will be squared up.”

“You’ve got centuries of Asgardian prejudice to contend with.”

“The rewards could be worth it.”

Sigyn didn’t really understand what she meant by that.

“I’ll look forward to seeing it,” she said

Theoric beamed. Her smile was astounding. Sigyn had said it without really thinking about it, but she did mean it, and clearly Theoric knew that.

She stood in one fluid motion, saying, “Well, I suppose I should be going. Until the next time.”

“Of course, Theoric – it is Theoric, isn’t it?” She added the last out of polite obligation; she’d memorised her name from the licence, but it was probably inappropriate for Theoric to know that.

“It is,” she replied, gaze sweeping over Sigyn’s face.

Sigyn, again without really thinking, said, “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

But Theoric, as before, was alert: “When’s your day off?”

“Friday.”

Theoric nodded seriously, and took her leave with a final, “Goodnight, Sigyn.”

Loki was not unaware that, though the most common feeling on Asgard towards his memory was hostility, it was hardly the only sentiment expressed. He had, in fact, already made some surveys of opinions on himself across local taverns and public spaces using some less-favoured disguises. Posing as various soldiers and merchants across Asgard, he had made some inquiries already into what he could expect of his audience’s reactions to the work he was writing.

But Sigyn’s spirited defence of him had made him curious and he had been stubbornly determined to indulge his curiosity. He had a great many things to deal with, past, present and future, and the pleasant distraction of a chance to ferret out information, to charm and trick and convince it out of her, and for it to be information that could benefit him so personally – well, it could hardly be passed up. 

There may have been an additional incentive, of course. Because Sigyn, now that he thought about it, might not be a bad choice for another project he was eager to embark upon. This multiplicity of incentives did not trouble Loki; he had no qualms about his own ulterior motives. 

Leaving the archive now, having picked Sigyn over for information, he was... flattered. That wasn’t quite the term. Touched? Surely not. Whatever it was, it at once sat uncomfortably upon him and made him want to seize it tightly with both hands.

He was not unused to being the object of sexual and even romantic interest. But it had been a long time since... He snuffed the thought. It in itself was a problem. One he was doing his best to remedy. But it continued to irk him.

On Asgard, his last sexual congress had been in the weeks preceding Thor’s intended coronation. He’d fucked one of the honour guards rather hurriedly in an anteroom. He’d thought it might give him some satisfaction on what was to be an otherwise irksome day, to see one of the assembled retinue, who had a position of prominence in the ceremony, flushing and unable to meet his gaze. He had not seen that as a significant moment in his sexual history at the time. In many ways, he still didn’t. The event itself had little to no significance. But the time that followed... In the time that followed, he had discovered what he truly was. And he had fallen into the grips of the Mad Titan.

Recovering from that experience was an ongoing process, but Loki was viciously determined. At least his long, solitary imprisonment, left with nothing but his illusions, had enabled him to at last successfully bring himself to completion. In the first weeks of his incarceration he had been unable even to touch his own body without phantom sensations engulfing him. It had been debilitating. But he had overcome. Now he could masturbate with aplomb, if he did say so himself.

The next issue was incorporating someone else.

Loki enjoyed self-pleasure. Could anyone truly please him as well as he pleased himself? An absurd notion. But there was a gratification to the very fact of rendering a partner wide-eyed and panting with desire, and that he craved. Yet it would be foolish to deny the likelihood that bedding someone else would incur similar... personal inconveniences as had initially plagued his solitary pursuit of pleasure.

Sigyn really was the perfect solution. Such a _useful_ acquaintance.

She had pined after him, sincere and totally unassuming. He might admit to finding that gratifying, in its way. She was attracted to ‘Theoric’, too, that much he was certain of ( _she desires me so much that she wants me even when she does not know it’s me_ , he allowed himself to smugly reflect), which was a considerable boon; Loki did not wish to add to the difficulties he was anticipating by having to use an actual disguise. To be perceived as a woman, in a body that was still certainly home, but would not be recognised as the prince believed dead was the only possibility he would entertain. (Sigyn, curiously, had commented on the similar appearance; people were usually too thrown by the corporal differences to make such an observation.)

And she was so clearly inexperienced. That was not a trait Loki had sought in prior consorts, but it was a necessity in this case – desiring, but not fully aware of what to look for; that would ensure she noticed nothing he did not want her to notice.

Yes, she’d do perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have a consistent headcanon about Loki’s gender identity in the MCU, nor about pronouns. I have a few separate ones, and the one I’ve run with in this fic is: Loki is genderfluid, and would on his own terms probably be fine with any pronouns, but given the attitudes in Asgard to gender and especially gender-nonconformity, only uses ‘he’ when appearing as the figure of Loki we all recognise. Hence why Loki's POV is all ‘he’, as is used in the films. Whereas Sigyn, making an assumption (that I’m not condoning), thinks of Theoric as ‘she’ because she sees Theoric as a woman and that’s the assumed default for someone read as a woman.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was grappling with a big long chapter and it finally hit me it needed to be split in two. So a bit shorter, but more to come!

Theoric came back the following evening, earlier than usual, around the time that most of the palace’s inhabitants, save the kitchen and waiting staff, were having dinner. Sigyn herself was absentmindedly chewing on a sandwich when the door opened and Theoric stepped inside, holding a glass bottle and a picnic hamper.

Sigyn looked at her in total confusion. “You’ve... brought a picnic?”

“Indeed I did. And more importantly, I have brought this truly excellent wine imported from Nidavellir.”

“But... why?”

Theoric gave Sigyn’s sandwich (which was admittedly rather bland; she’d been running out of food in the pantry again) a disdainful look. “I thought you might prefer something a little more... substantive to eat.”

“Eating’s not allowed in here,” Sigyn said, self-consciously slipping her sandwich back into the box in her lap under the desk. “And I can’t drink when I’m working.”

Theoric’s mirthful eyes were almost luminous. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Sigyn found herself at a loss for what to say as Theoric once again dragged the chair she’d sat on the previous night over to Sigyn’s desk, upon which she began to spread out the picnic. It was truly mouth-watering. But the delicious look and smell of the food didn’t quell Sigyn’s questions.

“Theoric. Why are you here?”

Glass green eyes met hers as Theoric looked up from unpacking. She looked wholly open, no trace of the wolf smile or the aloofness which had radiated off her the first night she’d come to the archives. She said, “Don’t you get lonely, all alone up here?”

Sigyn suspected she was talking about herself, that Theoric was naming her own loneliness as Sigyn’s. She didn’t know how to respond to it. And why she should have selected Sigyn as a companion, Sigyn had no idea beyond the vague suspicion it had something to do with their shared interest in Loki.

Sigyn was also sure that loneliness was not Theoric’s only motivator for coming here. She’d have to tread carefully.

“This certainly looks good,” she offered.

Theoric smiled. Not really wolfish, though perhaps a little; more than anything, it was the old adage of the cat that got the canary.

Sigyn picked up one of the delicacies nearest to her, a circle of pastry delicately topped with a pale sauce and a miniature coil of ham, and sprinkled with impossibly finely chopped chives. It was the kind of favour you would expect a waiter to carry round on a tray at a large event, not for someone to bring in a picnic hamper. She popped it into her mouth; earthy flavours burst on her tongue and she let out a startled and delighted “Mmm!”

“Good, aren’t they?” Theoric said, eyes sparkling as she took one too.

“Have you had a good day?” Sigyn asked. She was sure Theoric would get to the real purpose of her trip in time.

Theoric nodded. “And yourself?”

“A bit slow, but well enough.” She hesitated before going on, but decided if Theoric could boldly press for information, she may as well do the same. “How’s the play going?”

“It’s starting well. I’m still plotting it out at the moment.”

“More research to do?”

“I shall have to see how things develop.”

The look Theoric was giving her now was... She had to be interpreting it wrong. The wolfish, predatory look she was very familiar with, even after such a brief acquaintance. But the particular _hunger_ there now...

Sigyn cleared her throat. “Does the Allfather have to approve the script?” she asked, turning her gaze to the food spread out between them.

“Yes. Do you like theatre, Sigyn?”

She half smiled. “What I do like I like a lot.”

“And what is it you like?”

“I’m a fan of the touring companies.”

It was a delicate but pointed answer. Asgardian theatre tended towards the bombastic and spectacular. Touring companies usually offered shorter but more complex performances, with company members from across the realms. 

Theoric, unexpectedly, laughed. “I shall endeavour to offer you something with more... character than standard royal fare.”

“I would be very grateful. Did you see _Ask and Embla_ a few years back?”

“Oh Norns, I’d successfully scoured that from my mind...”

She looked peaky at the mere memory of the show. Sigyn was relieved; if _The Tragedy of Loki of Asgard_ could avoid that particular style that would be one blessing at least. 

“Do you think the Allfather actually enjoys productions like that?”

“He’s never been overly fond of the theatre in a personal capacity,” Theoric said, “but he recognises the importance it can have.”

“In this case especially, I suppose. Gives him something to focus on, after everything.”

It was not inherently a strange thing to say. The fact that Sigyn inwardly suspected the Allfather was feeling a phenomenal amount of guilt was not necessarily implicit in the comment; she might have simply been referring to the horrendous events themselves that Asgard had suffered recently. But Theoric’s gaze was slightly narrowed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that he looks very like he did after... what happened on the Bifrost. Don’t you think?”

Theoric looked at her sharply. Sigyn had no idea why. Then she tilted her head and said, “I suppose.”

“Have you heard about the statue?”

“I have. Should be an impressive sight.”

Sigyn made a face. “Apparently it includes the helm.”

“What’s wrong with the helm?”

She merely raised her eyebrows.

“No, go on, what’s wrong with the helm? I think it looks regal.”

“You could barely see him for the size of the thing!”

The corner of Theoric’s mouth curled up. “Oh, so that’s it? Didn’t like it hiding any of him from you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sigyn replied primly.

“But you left it open to inference.”

Sigyn wanted to respond to that. Before she could come up with an answer though, Theoric said, “You did have feelings for him, didn’t you?”

She knew Theoric already suspected with such conviction that a denial wasn’t worth it. “Yes.”

Glass green eyes looked at her, as though expecting more. All she could think to say was, “It wasn’t exactly uncommon. He was a popular man.”

“He wasn’t popular,” Theoric refuted without heat. “What he was, was desired. But you aren’t talking about simple desire.”

Sigyn huffed a laugh. “I don’t think desire’s simple.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

She clinked her wine glass against Sigyn’s. The wine was potent, leaving a pleasant warmth in her chest that spread through her whole body. She hadn’t even realised she was cold.

“You too, right?” she asked.

Theoric was topping up their glasses as she said, “Me too what?”

“Loki,” was all Sigyn could say. It left the question open. Did you like him? Did you sleep with him? Did you love him?

Theoric laughed. The sound was so unexpected the Sigyn sloshed a bit of wine onto her skirt. Luckily the dark colour only showed wetness, not a stain.

“Loki and I had a... complicated relationship, you might say.” She looked at Sigyn slyly. “Why? Jealous?”

“No.” Sigyn said it with more conviction that she felt. She suspected from Theoric’s smirk that it didn’t convince her.

“Why did you never act upon your interest in him?”

How could she even begin to answer that question, especially to someone she barely knew? Discussing it with Ingrid was hard enough. Desire was certainly not simple, at least not for Sigyn.

She busied herself with dabbing at the wet patch on her skirt. “No one likes rejection.”

“He would have been a fool to reject you.”

She looked up sharply. This was miles away from her area of expertise, but... that sounded like...

Eyes gleaming, Theoric whispered conspiratorially, “I’m flirting with you.”

Sigyn just about managed to school any embarrassing reaction to that and instead said, “By talking about my interest in someone else? It’s a rather unorthodox method.”

“Unorthodox, that’s me.”

Almost as soon as she’d said it, Theoric fluidly changed the subject. Pertinent and well-thought-through questions about the archive, about the training Sigyn had gone through to get here, about how it functioned within Asgard more broadly. Theoric seemed to know a surprising amount. The conversation drifted, engaging and comfortable. Sigyn was startled when she realised it was time to lock up.

It was as she stood to pack up the remains of their picnic that Theoric finally addressed what had been hanging in the air between them. Sidelong, as ever.

Her voice was husky when she spoke. “You said that I look like Loki.”

“I can’t be the only person who thinks so.”

Theoric grinned, apparently amused by Sigyn’s stubborn overlooking of the question’s subtext.

“Would you say you have a type?”

Sigyn sighed and fixed Theoric with an honest, unwavering look.

“You wouldn’t want me to desire you because you remind me of Loki. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Do I have no attractions of my own?” She was joking, playful, at her ease.

Sigyn swallowed. She tried to match Theoric’s tone: “You clearly know you do.”

“Then that’s alright then, isn’t it?”

Theoric smiled. Then in but a few fluid movements, she had packed everything back into the hamper and had come to stand in front of Sigyn.

Their height difference was much more apparent when they were both standing. Sigyn couldn’t have ever seen a woman so tall before.

“I’m not concerned, so I don’t think you should be,” Theoric said.

They were so close now, Sigyn could smell her. She smelt cool, sharp, like crisp winter. She was staring at Theoric’s lips as she saw them form the words: “May I kiss you?”

For a moment Sigyn was stunned. Theoric didn’t seem in a rush for a response, smiling lazily at her, eyes roaming her face. Finally, still unable to form words, Sigyn nodded. She had never done anything like this. But in that moment, she felt a kind of rapture, gazing at Theoric as she bent her head to her. The answer was unequivocally yes. She wouldn’t let the opportunity pass her by.

Theoric grinned, one hand tangling with Sigyn’s own, nervously fixed at her side and the other caressing slowly up Sigyn’s throat, across the shell of her ear to stroke through her hair. “Your pulse is racing. Like a rabbit’s,” she husked, amused, her breath fanning Sigyn’s upturned face.

“Well this was rather unexpected,” Sigyn replied. She sounded calm, she realised, even slightly amused herself, and was pleased by the discovery.

“I brought you a picnic,” Theoric retorted, smiling even more broadly, still stroking Sigyn’s hair. Sigyn realised, with a flush of affection, that she was checking Sigyn’s nod was a confident one. “You can’t say I haven’t made the effort to seduce you.”

Sigyn actually laughed at that. The laughter made her bold enough to brush her nose gently against Theoric’s, bringing their lips closer. “Seduction? Is that what that was?”

“How rude,” Theoric said solemnly. Then her lips were on Sigyn’s.

Sigyn had a brief moment of shock, despite Theoric’s open request, the slowness of the build-up, the many opportunities for her to pull back. There was something inherently intoxicating about the kiss which overwhelmed her senses. And then the desire to reciprocate kicked in in full force. Suckling on Theoric’s lower lip, Sigyn was aware that she was the much clumsier partner, but the soft moan Theoric gave was welcome encouragement. She tangled her own hands in Theoric’s hair, running her nails over her scalp, earning herself another moan. She’d already lost awareness of the shameless sounds she herself was making.

Theoric pulled back, brushing the tip of her nose against Sigyn’s. She was smiling. Sigyn thought she was probably grinning like a fool, but couldn’t quite access any self-consciousness about it.

“Can I walk you home?” Theoric asked.

“I don’t really do this,” Sigyn said before she could think of something less inane to say.

“What do you mean by ‘this’?”

That was where Sigyn really floundered. “Well I have... before... sort of... but not casually.”

“Ah,” Theoric said. “Well what if I told you that I take sex _very_ seriously?”

Sigyn swallowed. She did manage a weak smile though, and to almost hit her desired tone with, “Is that a line?”

Theoric laughed. She had a fascinating laugh; dry, but very warm. It sent a thrill up Sigyn’s spine. Her answer, though, was sincere: “‘Not tonight’ is a perfectly acceptable answer if you would like some time. I’m a patient woman.”

Sigyn did consider that seriously. But she found, in a way that she never had so early in an acquaintance, that she wanted to say yes. Buoyed up, she chose not to overthink it. “You can walk me home, if you like. I live on the edge of the Guild Quarter.” She took a breath. “And you can come in. If you like.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for post-traumatic sexual issues and pleasure anxiety

Whilst they walked, Theoric related a story about a play she’d been to see recently; the Allfather had also been a member of the audience. The actors had seemed so aware of him that they’d barely been paying any attention to their performance, all constantly peeking at him in a way that utterly destroyed their characterisation.

“I won’t settle for that,” she said firmly. “The King of Asgard should not suffer through mediocre entertainment.”

“I expect the King of Asgard suffers through a tremendous amount of mediocre entertainment,” Sigyn replied. “Didn’t he see _Ask and Embla_? Hazard of the job, I’d expect.”

She was glad Theoric was being so chatty. She was sure that was why she felt so calm in a situation that was so wildly unlike her.

When they reached her door and Sigyn unlocked it, pushing it open as she did so, Theoric stopped her with a gentle hand on her wrist. “Are you sure?” Her gaze was clear, intense and unassuming.

“Yes,” Sigyn said as she looped her arms round Theoric’s neck to pull her down for a kiss.

Theoric’s response was to _growl_. She bent her knees and hoisted Sigyn up, lifting her shockingly easily with her hands on the backs of her thighs, keeping her stable. Sigyn wrapped her legs round Theoric’s waist as she crossed the threshold, kicking Sigyn’s front door shut without looking.

She paused, and, pulling back from the kiss for a breath, asked, “You do live alone, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sigyn replied breathlessly, trying to tug her back to her lips again.

“Good. Then we can be loud. Bed?”

“Through there.”

She stalked in the direction Sigyn was pointing. Sigyn was amazed how easily she manoeuvred whilst holding her. She expected to be dropped onto the bed, was prepared for it in fact, but instead Theoric got a knee up onto the bed and lay Sigyn down still in her arms so that she was poised over her, still holding her but not putting any weight on her. Sigyn was desperate for her to put weight on her.

She felt Theoric kick her boots off (somehow – they looked like they’d take a team to remove) and kicked off her own shoes as well, not bothering about the laces. Theoric kissed her again, bracing her elbows on either side of Sigyn’s head. Feeling bold, Sigyn blindly tugged Theoric’s shirt from her trousers. Theoric laughed against her lips.

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

“Desperately,” Sigyn said without a hint of shame.

Theoric laughed again and obligingly pulled her shirt over her head. Her lingerie was well-made, but functional. From the lean muscle of her torso and arms, Sigyn suspected Theoric was very active.

She slid down the bed to kneel at Sigyn’s feet, lifting one up and caressing unhurriedly from her ankle to her knee, passing under her skirt as she did so. She carried on further, until she came to the fastening of her woollen stocking. She stroked languidly over the place that her skin met the wool, and Sigyn made a very undignified noise of impatience.

Theoric laughed once again. “Sigyn, you really must learn to _savour_.”

She issued a light kick to Theoric’s shoulder with her free foot. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m afraid that’s a promise I can’t keep. But I can promise you’ll like it.”

With the lightest brush of her fingertips, Theoric loosed Sigyn’s stocking and guided it, tantalisingly slowly, down her leg, caressing and massaging the skin as she went. When that stocking was removed and cast to the floor, she started afresh on the other. The exact same process, every aching second of it, with the addition of a lingering kiss to Sigyn’s ankle bone when the stocking was gone.

When she leant back over Sigyn, Sigyn fumbled with her belt, slithering it free of the loops of her trousers, as Theoric distracted her by kissing her neck and pulling her up to embrace her. She only realised that Theoric had unbuttoned her dress when she felt the cold air on her back as she tugged it open. It was an impressive job – Theoric hadn’t even looked, and Sigyn hadn’t felt the movement. It was almost like she’d run her fingers over the buttons and they’d come undone in sheer anticipation. Sigyn couldn’t blame them.

She helped Theoric undress her, wriggling free of her dress and workaday lingerie like a fish wriggling out of a net, which set Theoric laughing again.

“I thought you said you took this seriously,” Sigyn said, unable to keep the laughter out of her own voice.

“I do. I laugh at the most serious things, you know.” And then, perhaps by way of apology, though she sounded utterly sincere, she said, “You’re beautiful.”

Sigyn tried to hide her blush by enthusiastically tugging Theoric’s trousers off.

When at last they were both naked, time seemed to slow. Maybe it was a power that Theoric had, because she seemed determined to go glacially slowly. Sigyn was inwardly grateful; it meant any lingering nervousness about what they were doing was being eased away rather than powered through. But she was also unused to being so frantically, achingly _needy_ , and it felt like it was driving her slightly mad. Theoric was touching her everywhere except anywhere that should have been directly erotic; yet somehow everywhere she touched, by virtue of her touching it, _became_ directly erotic. She was gasping and moaning and Theoric had done nothing, really, just stroked her hands over her and whispered sweet, filthy nothings in her ear.

Inexperienced as she was, though, Sigyn didn’t see herself as a passive lover. She tried her best to give back to Theoric what Theoric was giving to her, stroking over Theoric’s hip, tracing her ribs, gliding her fingertips over her shoulder blades. She cupped Theoric’s arse, which she’d admired in those trousers. She babbled to Theoric, too, every compliment that came to her, all of them true.

They kissed over and over, mouths seeking one another then seeking throats, shoulders, the skin just beneath Theoric’s earlobe which made her arch deliciously against Sigyn. And then, breaking away in a rapture, pupils blown wide, Theoric dropped a kiss to the swell of Sigyn’s breast and said, “Sigyn, let me take care of you.”

It was not spoken as a question, but Sigyn understood it as the request it was. She nodded. She imagined that nod as Theoric must have seen it, her pupils wide and lips swollen.

Sigyn inhaled and shuddered in delightful anticipation as Theoric slunk down her body, kissing a leisurely trail down to the juncture of her thighs. Sliding her hands to the small of Sigyn’s back, Theoric lifted and tilted her, angling herself between Sigyn’s legs with the backs of her thighs up over her shoulders. Her hands slid back to Sigyn’s front, caressing soothingly as she breathed – only breathed, for the moment – over Sigyn’s lips spread before her.

Sigyn buried her hands in Theoric’s hair. She couldn’t resist the urge to touch. And when Theoric licked a firm, flat-tongued stripe – not deep, yet, just dipping inside her lips to taste the wetness there, and gliding across her clit – she gripped those handfuls of hair so tightly that Theoric let out a strangled groan of pleasure. Something to bear in mind for later, Sigyn thought dimly as she arched towards Theoric’s mouth.

She had been absolutely right when she had promised both to tease and that Sigyn would love it. She paid rapt attention to the minutest of Sigyn’s responses to determine what she liked best, what she most needed – sometimes, Sigyn swore, even realising it before she did – and to calculate exactly what would drive her to the pinnacle of pleasure. With this dedicated carnal research, Theoric directed her performance: lips, tongue and fingers co-ordinated to promise her the most world-shattering orgasm – and repeatedly drew her back from it. Sigyn was caught between longing for the release and vehemently turning from it, not wanting everything Theoric was doing to her to ever stop.

But when Theoric did bring her to climax, she discovered, almost laughing at the shock of it, that she had never had to choose. Theoric’s eyes never left Sigyn throughout her peak, and though her movements slowed and gentled, making sure not to overwhelm her, they did not stop. They carried on so that another orgasm could grow from the waning of the first. Sigyn’s spine bowed, not in the snap of a peak but in a slow, rising curve from the bed that matched the trajectory Theoric seemed to have put her on.

As she came back to herself, she couldn’t quite find the words, so she had to tug weak-limbed at Theoric to get her to come lie down with her while she caught her breath. She held tightly to her, burying her face against her throat. The first word she could get out was, “Wow.” The second was, “Theoric.”

Theoric lay with Sigyn, quiet but not still. She ran her hands everywhere over Sigyn’s skin. Sigyn at first thought she was keeping the mood going, but as full awareness returned to her, she realised Theoric wasn’t angling for potential reciprocation, but seemed instead wholly absorbed in the simple experience of her own skin touching Sigyn’s.

“Hey,” Sigyn whispered. She hadn’t meant to whisper, but her voice wasn’t quite back to normal yet. “You alright?”

Glass green eyes met hers, pupils still blown wide. “Much better than alright.”

“Can I take care of you now?”

Theoric almost purred. “Well, if you insist...”

Sigyn kissed her. In amongst the excitement and arousal coursing through her was a chill of nervousness. She was hardly adept at this, and Theoric clearly was; she couldn’t entirely shut out the fear of disappointing. But she wanted this. Wanted this with an intensity that had previously only originated from one, utterly untouchable source, and that was wonderful and exciting and she _wanted._ So she moved down Theoric’s throat, kissing and caressing as instinct guided her. She lay a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh...

And then she stopped. She stopped to check she wasn’t imagining it, but glancing up at Theoric’s face confirmed it. Theoric was tense, her jaw clenched, her breathing forcibly regular, her grip on the bedsheet white-knuckled. The instant she saw Sigyn notice, she made an effort to hide it.

“Are you alright?” she asked Sigyn in a tender tone, as though Sigyn were the one to be concerned for. But her voice was ever so slightly strained.

“I am. Are you? You’re very tense.”

Theoric laughed. “It’s the anticipation. I want you. Don’t stop, Sigyn.”

“Good anticipation, or...?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sigyn didn’t know how the words were intended to come out, but they emerged snappish, and Theoric instantly pressed her lips together as though she wished she could claw them back. The unintended flare of emotion broke her poise, and she covered her face with her arm. She heard her curse under her breath.

Sigyn crawled back to the pillow beside Theoric, measuring the space carefully to give her room but not to seem to withdraw from her.

“Do you want to talk about –”

“No,” Theoric spat. “There is nothing to talk about. I am _fine_.”

“Do you want to do this now? We could wait?”

“Yes, I want to do this,” she snapped back.

Sigyn propped herself up on her elbow. Theoric still had her eyes covered, but Sigyn hoped she could sense the look she was giving her. She was rewarded by Theoric slowly lifting her arm to meet Sigyn’s gaze.

She didn’t say anything.

Sigyn said gently, “It’s not really the sort of thing you can muscle through.”

“That is an unattractive picture of fornication,” Theoric conceded testily.

There was a silence again, a longer one, as Sigyn looked at Theoric and contemplated.

Finally: “You seemed to be enjoying... before...” she swallowed and made herself be frank. “The foreplay, and when your mouth was on me, it seemed like you were enjoying that, so...”

“You really do struggle to articulate anything carnal, don’t you? Why is that, Sigyn? You’re evidently very desirous, very passionate. I sense you don’t _want_ to be seen as the library mouse. But putting your voice to it is a struggle for you, hmm?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“It’s perfectly within the rules of engagement.”

Sigyn snorted. It was a profoundly ugly noise, but the corner of Theoric’s mouth lifted at the sound, and Sigyn’s heart jumped with it.

“I’m trying to ask,” she said, lowering herself to rest on the pillow closer to Theoric, “if you would find this easier if you were giving at the same time as receiving. So you could... find it less overwhelming? If that’s the issue?”

Theoric’s face was a mixed picture. The analysis was clearly anathema to her, but she seemed at the same time rather impressed by it, and almost in spite of herself the corner of her mouth lifted again.

“Probably, yes,” she admitted, still somewhat terse. Then, shifting, propping herself up, re-establishing her swaggering confidence with a grin, she said, “You aren’t as innocent as you suggest, are you?”

“In thought if not always in deed.”

Theoric twisted her hand into Sigyn’s hair, angling her for a kiss, murmuring, “I can rectify that.”

“Is that a yes then?”

Theoric’s ‘yes’ was a hiss, but a pleased one. Sigyn accepted it and turned round.

If she could have focussed after Theoric got her hands on her again, she might have laughed at her inability to follow her own insistence on patience: as soon as Sigyn’s thighs were level with her shoulders, Theoric tugged her into position and pressed her mouth to her, laying a hot kiss on her clit and lapping into her cunt.

Sigyn moaned and her toes curled, but she wasn’t about to be outdone; she lowered her own mouth to Theoric.

At first, Sigyn simply mirrored what Theoric did. It helped her get into a rhythm, and likely helped Theoric too, giving her control over what was done to her in turn by what she chose to do to Sigyn. As Sigyn became more confident though, and when she was happy that Theoric was no longer tense and seemed instead to be in raptures once again, she diverted from her mirroring. She broke the rhythm, circled back to repeat a rapid figure-eight with her tongue over Theoric’s clit that a moment ago had had her canting her hips eagerly.

She felt Theoric’s lips lift up off her own clit, felt the rush of breath over her cunt as she rasped, “Fuck, Sigyn.”

Sigyn lost sense of time or place. All she could concentrate on was what she was doing to Theoric and what Theoric was doing to her, gasping, tongues laving, backs arching, falling into sync with one another and driving each other mad in separate ways before joining again in chorus.

Her orgasm grew like the swell of a wave, building continuously and washing over her in an arc, at the same moment Theoric clenched tight and let out a long, deep moan that sounded, muffled as it was by Sigyn’s cunt, like a howl of relief.

Sigyn rolled off Theoric, giddy and flushed and grinning. She crawled back up to meet her on the pillow, wrapping her arms tightly around her. Theoric shifted within Sigyn’s embrace; getting comfortable, Sigyn assumed. She managed to find a position that suited her, on her side facing Sigyn, her own arm also draped over Sigyn’s hip.

“Was that good?” Sigyn asked.

Theoric laughed. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were wild, and those high cheekbones were flushed rosy. “Yes,” she said, with a hint of breathlessness in her voice that sent a thrill through Sigyn. “That was _very_ good.”

Sigyn kissed her leisurely. She felt Theoric sink against her until there was no space between them.

When they parted, she pressed a kiss to Theoric’s temple, tasting the salt of her sweat.

They lay like that for a time, basking. Then Sigyn trailed her fingertips over Theoric’s hip.

“Can I fuck you?”

Theoric’s teeth flashed as she gave Sigyn a look of bemused curiosity. “You are quite unexpected, you know.”

“Is that a yes? Or we could wait? We do have all night.”

Theoric laughed. “Getting better at asking for what you want, apparently.”

Sigyn kissed the corner of Theoric’s mouth. “Would you ask for what you want?”

She’d hoped she had offered something appealing, something Theoric would express excitement for, but the low, rumbling moan was more than she could have wished for.

“Offer accepted,” she husked, lifting Sigyn’s wrist and kiss the inside of it, over her pulse. 

Sigyn took the opportunity to stroke over Theoric’s cheekbone, caressing her as she climbed on top of her. She was careful to take things slowly, not to press too hard or too fast. That worked for her, too.

She explored with her mouth as she’d so longed to do, focusing particularly on the juncture of Theoric’s shoulder and neck, her throat, just behind her ear – anywhere, in short, that elicited that delightful groan of pleasure.

Theoric guided Sigyn’s hand between her legs. She left it there, bringing her own hands up to Sigyn’s ribs, caressing her hungrily. Sigyn dipped an experimental finger between Theoric’s lips, gathering wetness and drawing it forwards to rub at her clit. Theoric jerked beneath her. Sigyn stilled, about to murmur an “Are you alright?”, but Theoric griped, “Don’t fuss. And don’t you dare stop.”

Sigyn complied, but on her own terms: she did not return her finger to Theoric’s clit, but ground the heel of her hand over her mons. Her gasp was musical and she pressed up into Sigyn’s palm.

“You’re so beautiful...” Sigyn murmured without having meant to say anything. She was supporting herself above Theoric on one elbow, whilst the other hand worked between their bodies. They were touching almost everywhere.

Theoric looked up at her, pupils immense. “More.”

“You need only ask,” Sigyn said, again not really thinking about what she said. She bent to kiss Theoric’s throat again as she returned her fingers to her clit, rubbing neat, tight circles, clearly slower than Theoric wanted. Rather than speeding up when Theoric writhed against her hand, Sigyn changed directions.

Later, when Sigyn went over and over every aspect of this night, she would wonder where that impulse to tease had come from. Was she trying to recreate the way Theoric had pleasured her? She hoped it was that, because the alternative was that some little echo of all her time fantasising about being in bed with Loki had snuck its way into a real sexual encounter. Sigyn wanted to be... well, _like Theoric_ , in some ways, really: sexually assured, teasing and tantalising with the absolute knowledge that it was bringing her partner more pleasure. She had always thought she would lack the confidence. But starting with the mutual pleasure had helped her, too, and now, gazing rapturously at Theoric’s flawless, expressive face, it felt perfectly natural. And Theoric openly adored it.

“Faster, Sigyn!” she hissed. It was a challenge; in the midst of coital ecstasy, Theoric still managed to look sly.

Sigyn went faster. She switched to using her thumb to rub Theoric’s clit, changing the angle and freeing her fingers. In contrast to the rapid movement of her thumb, she slid her finger into Theoric’s cunt achingly slowly. She drew it out even slower.

Theoric swore. And then she fisted Sigyn’s hair and looked her dead in the eye. She was grinning. Her tension from before seemed to be utterly gone, and Sigyn was pleased by that, though she was alert to any return of it. Theoric’s eyes were wild and she was panting, but when she spoke it was smooth and articulate: “You are a delightful surprise.”

Sigyn wasn’t sure what to say to that, so by way of response she switched her rhythms, adding a second finger and pumping faster as she slowed the movement of her thumb.

Theoric cursed joyfully. Her hips canted and followed the movement of Sigyn’s hand, meeting her thrusts, chasing the movement. Sigyn bent her head to lap and suck at Theoric’s nipple, moving her free hand to roll the other in an identical rhythm but opposite in direction to her thumb’s movement on her clit.

When she felt Theoric clench round her fingers, she raised her head to watch her, keeping her hands working between her legs and over her breast. She had expected Theoric’s eyes to be closed in pleasure. They were not. Her eyes were wide, darkly delighted, and utterly fixed on Sigyn.

When Theoric came with a hiss, Sigyn felt the orgasm reverberate through her, too. It left her lightheaded and panting. 

Theoric’s eyes were screwed shut now, and she seemed tense again, still trembling from the aftershocks of orgasm. When Sigyn kissed her forehead though, she unclenched herself enough to wrap an arm around her waist and press her face into Sigyn’s throat.

Sigyn murmured her name gently, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head.

“Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

Theoric nodded, not lifting her head. After a pause, she said something muffled against Sigyn’s skin; it sounded like “Comfortable.”

After a long moment – so long Sigyn thought she’d fallen asleep – Theoric shifted her position so she could look into her eyes. They lay face to face on the pillow, Sigyn’s arm still gently around Theoric.

“Are you aware you’re a spectacular fuck?” Theoric asked. The serious tone with which she said it contrasted with the crassness of the words had Sigyn snorting a laugh.

“Extremely high praise, coming from you.”

Theoric grinned and twined her arms about Sigyn, cupping the back of her head so she could tuck her under her chin.

Sigyn kissed the pulse that jumped beneath her lips. Theoric’s heart was still beating fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh... it was my first time... was that good for you?


	5. Chapter 5

Wide awake in Sigyn’s bed, Loki’s mind raced like a creature on the hunt.

When he had planned this all out beforehand (not the entire act, of course – the delectation of that was in the surprise, the spontaneity, the impulse – but he had known the shape, certainly), he had believed he would reinstate one central former behaviour with no difficulty: he would leave.

Loki did not _cuddle_. When intimacy was sexual, he could enjoy it for what it was, but he had no desire to share space, to endure lingering physical contact for no discernible benefit to himself. He always distanced himself immediately, felt his heart-rate return to normal, and either departed himself or instructed whoever was currently taking up space in his bed to leave. He could do it with great charm – it had taken some former paramours weeks to realise there would be no repetition of the act, that they had no victory to claim over him – but without fail he would do it. It had never even crossed his mind that that this endeavour would be any different in that respect.

So why were Sigyn’s arms wrapped around him, her lips pressed to his skin? Why had he put his arms around her? Pulled her closer? Why was it – Norns – _pleasant_?

The crux of the issue was this: Loki liked it. Whatever was going on with the cuddling and the contact and the warm presence of Sigyn pressed to him, curling round him, he wanted it. And he deplored being denied things he wanted. By that logic, then, he should not deny himself. What good was being King of Asgard if you couldn’t have what you wanted?

And yet he knew one must be wary of one’s own wants. Closeness to anyone is a risk. Closeness to Sigyn had been calculated – but not this close.

Moreover, it was entirely out of character that he had stayed after... after the initial shame. He should have fucked her again, to prove his prowess, and immediately left. Not let her analyse him somehow and coax his own pleasure.

He had enjoyed it. Very much. More than he had expected he would, truth be told. Was it the length of time – or, perhaps, the particular nature of the time? – since his last encounter that had made this one so good? It was hard to tell.

She’d been surprisingly astute at anticipating his needs.

How _had_ she done that? And how did he feel about it?

When she’d asked how he was feeling, he’d toyed with several responses. He justified what he settled on as adhering to one of his favoured tactics: offering a truth without its surrounding context, which protected his own interests and flattered the inquisitor.

“Comfortable.”

The fact was, he _was_ comfortable. Which then made him rather uncomfortable, because he did not want this. He never wanted this. Except now he seemed to. So which denial was the correct denial? What was his path forwards?

He lay for hours turning it over and over in his mind, dissecting and reassembling it, never quite able to escape the undeniable satisfaction of the gentle rise and fall of Sigyn’s sleeping form.

Sigyn woke up alone.

She did so every day, of course, but this morning it was a profoundly unpleasant surprise, because she had expected not to. She rolled over in the morning light, smiling groggily, reaching out for Theoric with a sleep-heavy arm... and found the space cold.

She sat up, awake but still bleary, scrubbing her eyes and looking around the room. Theoric’s clothes were gone.

“Theoric?”

No answer.

Pulling on her robe, she padded barefoot into the kitchen. Empty.

It was true that Theoric had promised nothing: her response to Sigyn’s fumbled attempt to say she hadn’t had casual sex before – hadn’t really done much of anything before – had been to say that she took sex seriously. That was it. It had calmed the immediate nervousness Sigyn had been feeling, reassured her that this wouldn’t be rushed or clumsy or impersonal, but it had not been an offer of anything more than the night, whatever Sigyn might have preferred. But leaving without even a word like this... that _hurt_.

She set her shoulders, and stayed in her robe for longer than was normal, even for a day off.

Her day off – that meant she was having lunch with Ingrid. Well, that would be good; it meant she could talk about this soon.

She could feel the previous night when she moved. A pleasant ache in her muscles. And, despite, her bad mood at finding Theoric gone, a sensuousness lingered on her.

She took a long bath before getting dressed.

It was whilst she was soaking in the elaborately scented water that her mind drifted, absurdly, to the picnic hamper. Maybe it was because she was trying to replay last night as if from a distance – to remember it without dwelling – that it caught her attention. But whatever the reason, as she lay in the bath, she found herself wondering what had happened to it. Theoric had been holding it as they walked back from the archives, of that she was sure. But when she had lifted Sigyn up, where had it gone? Had she put it down? She must have. But then had she left it outside all night? Well, not all night – she probably collected it on her way out, as soon as Sigyn was asleep. 

“Get a grip,” she said aloud. She stood abruptly, stepping out of the bath, feeling the impact of the cold air on her flushed skin.

As she dried herself and slowly dressed, she had plenty of time to plan what she would say to Ingrid.

In the end, she opted for an entirely unsubtle “I have something to tell you,” said as soon as she met her outside the public house, not even waiting until they’d entered.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Will I need a drink to hear this?”

“You may want to be sitting down.”

“Promises, promises. In we go then.”

Ingrid and Sigyn had met when they were so young that neither remembered it clearly. They had been schooled together, and probably at first it had been nothing more than them being sat beside one another on those long wooden benches, but they’d stuck to one another, and grown together rather than apart as they aged. They had both moved to the city at around the same time, Sigyn to start work in the archives and Ingrid to begin metalworking. More than a century into running her own forge, Ingrid was still turning away requests for jewellery and having to explain that she made armour and weapons; female smiths were very much the minority. Her favourite customer was the Lady Sif, and her ultimate goal had been to receive a commission from the Allmother to make her a set of armour. That could never be realised now.

“So,” she said when they were seated at a table in the back, “what’s the big news?”

“Something happened last night. With a woman who started coming to the archives a few nights ago.”

“As in... a good something?”

“Yeah, I’d say good.”

Ingrid grinned. She dropped her chin into her palm and said, “Tell me _everything_.”

Sigyn did. She told her about Theoric’s visit to the archive and her first impressions of her then; about the second visit Theoric made, all her questions, her interest in Sigyn – including her interest in Sigyn’s interest in Loki; she told her about the picnic last night, and that lead into –

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Ingrid interrupted over a forkful of pie, “are you telling me you had sex? With someone you barely know?”

“Yes,” she replied as evenly as she could.

Ingrid lowered her fork. Sigyn could see she was grappling with what she’d just said.

“Wow, Sigyn. That’s... How are you feeling?”

Sigyn chewed thoughtfully. “Generally good about it,” she said honestly. “Though – she left. I had thought...” Where was she going to go with that sentence? She wasn’t sure.

“She left?”

“Yeah. I woke up and she’d gone.”

Ingrid winced and poured Sigyn more wine. “Fuck, what an arsehole. Try not to take it personally – easier said than done I know – but some people are one-night-only types, and just can’t deal with the next morning. Trust me, I know. And it’s her loss.” She sipped her own wine, measuring Sigyn’s mood. “Was it good though?”

“Oh yes,” Sigyn smiled. “Very.”

The look on Ingrid’s face was priceless. “Is it weird if I say congratulations? This feels like a congratulations.”

Ingrid had known Sigyn all her life, knew her better than anyone. She was the one Sigyn talked to about her confused emotions: about knowing that she was a person with desires – a person, in fact, deeply frustrated by perceptions of her as mousey and uninterested in sex – but whose desires never seemed to properly attach to anyone around her. Anyone except Loki.

Ingrid had theorised that as Loki was unattainable, he was therefore ‘safe’, a place for Sigyn to focus her wants without them actually entangling her. Sigyn had never been convinced by that; they weren’t theoretical desires, but things she definitely wanted. There had just never been anyone she wanted to do them with. She’d had one brief... whatever you might call it – the nature of their involvement had been as hard for Sigyn to parse herself as it had been for others – a long time ago now. She’d felt she ought to be grateful for his interest. But that interest waned as Sigyn continued not to throw herself at him; she could just never feel the interest in him she felt she should. It had not gone very far in the end, and she had joked that she’d gotten decidedly less from her time with him than she did from her one-sided devotion to Loki.

Theoric was the first person she had really _wanted_ who wasn’t Loki. But...

“You won’t feel that way when you hear how much she looks like _him_ ,” Sigyn said. She didn’t need to clarify whom ‘ _him_ ’ referred to.

“So you have a type? That’s hardly a crime. This is a big deal, Sigyn. Is it weird to say I’m proud of you?”

“It is a bit, yeah,” Sigyn said round a bite of potato.

“Fair enough. In that case,” she laid her fork down beside her clean plate and folded her hands on the table, “give me all the dirty details.”

It was, Sigyn had to admit, exhilarating to have something like this to tell. She did carefully leave out Theoric’s freezing up though; that felt very private, and even if she had left before Sigyn had awoken, Sigyn still felt a strange urge to protect that moment of vulnerability from scrutiny, even by her closest friend.

They talked well into the afternoon. The regret that Theoric’s silent departure had left was still there, but talking over the joys of the night in delicious, lurid detail was a reminder of everything that had been good about it.

Yet however she might try to respond to the experience with Theoric whilst awake, her sleeping mind was another matter entirely.

But of course, if she were going to have a dream about it, it couldn’t be a _straightforward_ dream. Oh no. A dream actually about Theoric, though likely deeply unhelpful, would have at least made sense. But it seemed that instead of the sex cropping up in her sleeping subconscious, her mind was manifesting questions about Theoric’s play and how the audience would respond to it. And it was, once again, fixating on Loki.

She thought she’d dreamed about him watching the play. He was watching _something_ , certainly. Or about to. Though it wasn’t in any of the playing spaces she knew of in Asgard. It actually hadn’t looked much like Asgard at all. He’d been in a sort spectator’s box, making his way towards a long sofa. And standing around, waiting for something to start with drinks in hands were... people of some kind. But no species she’d ever seen or even read about anywhere in the Nine Realms. Loki had been wearing blue for some reason – maybe that was to represent Valhalla? Maybe she’d been dreaming about him watching Theoric’s play in Valhalla, with all kinds of ancient species that populated it?

Or it was a very abstracted way of dealing with her desire for someone other than Loki. Which should not have been so momentous, but. Well. It was what it was.

Truth be told, though, she wasn’t entirely happy with either of those answers. Neither seemed to quite explain the dream. But then, it wasn’t a dream that could be explained; it was just her subconscious mind fooling around. And it wasn’t as though she could go to the Allmother about it anymore.

She told herself ‘best not to think about it’. And, of course, continued to think about it.

And, much to her chagrin, continued to think about Theoric.

After a week of it, Sigyn felt certain she was going mad.

She had no one to blame but herself. She could have so easily predicted she wasn’t cut out for ‘casual’. Yet she’d still managed to get herself into this situation. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it? She scratched angry marks into the record she was filling out, scarring her frustration at herself into the parchment. How many people were perfectly capable of just having a nice time and not _pining_ afterwards like a lovesick youth? Almost everyone. But her? Oh no. She was a grown woman, what the Hel was wrong with her?

She had asked herself that question before. She had asked it a lot in the last week.

She had half an hour until she would need to close up. She was struggling to focus on anything. Her calculations on the scrying spells still lay on the desk, with only a single half-hearted line added at the bottom as the sum total of all of tonight’s work. She cast around to see if there was anything else she could do, some small task to achieve to round off her shift in a more positive vein.

And then the door opened.

Sigyn blinked, convinced her eyes were playing tricks.

Theoric stood in the doorway, not entering.

“Hello,” Sigyn said.

“Hello,” she replied. Her hands were in front of her, as though she were at her ease, but she was subtly twisting her fingers. “I wanted to see you.”

“Here I am. Like always.” She was proud of her tone: not flustered, but very civil; detached, but not frosty.

Theoric exhaled slowly and stepped further in. “I am sorry I left so hurriedly.”

Sigyn didn’t move, unsure how to respond. Theoric seemed to interpret her silence as a refusal to be moved by such a paltry offering, because she went on: “I had a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Yes.”

“When, at dawn?”

“Yes.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that?”

“It slipped my mind.”

“You didn’t think to wake me as you left?”

“You were so soundly asleep.”

“And since then?”

“I have been busy.” 

Why had she come if just for this back and forth?

“Tell me the truth,” Sigyn said, feeling suddenly very tired.

“I am!”

Theoric was angry in the moment of the outburst, but seemed to slump immediately after. She chewed her lip.

“I am being as honest as I can be,” she said, softer.

The questions hung between them, almost palpable. Theoric watched Sigyn with inscrutable eyes.

“Why are you here?” Sigyn asked finally.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

A pause.

“I’ve missed you.”

“You were the one who left without saying a word.”

Theoric sighed again. She radiated discomfort and frustration.

Finally, she ground out, “You said you don’t do ‘this’. You seem to believe I am expert in whatever ‘this’ describes. Had it occurred to you that I might also be... in unfamiliar territory, in my own way? Some matters... required some thought.”

Sigyn felt like her chest was expanding. The memory of Theoric’s tension – fear, even – rose in her, leeching away her anger. Maybe this was hard for her, for reasons that were difficult for her to talk about.

“And I despise apologising, so I hope you appreciate this.”

“What is that you want, Theoric?”

“It would be... agreeable if I could continue to see you. If that night were not an isolated event.”

She’d experienced this with Theoric before, even in so brief an acquaintance: changes of mood and behaviour like fickle winds. The problem was, Sigyn had always rather liked high winds.

She looked at Theoric, studying her eyes and her expression. “I’d like to see more of you too,” she said honestly. “But I need you to respect me enough to be honest with me. If you can’t tell me something yet, I understand. You don’t have to tell me everything. But don’t lie to me. And don’t leave me like that without a goodbye again.”

“Quite the negotiator, aren’t you?” Theoric said. But when she held out her hand, it was grave, with an inclination of the head to show she understood.

Sigyn pushed her chair back and closed the distance between them, taking Theoric’s hand.

Theoric immediately tugged Sigyn to her and kissed her. Her hands came up to hold her face as though she were something unspeakably precious.

Sigyn stretched up into the kiss, wrapping her arms around Theoric’s neck. She stayed there even when they parted, resting her forehead against Theoric’s so their breath mingled.

“I want to see you tomorrow,” Theoric whispered against her mouth. “Lunch? I can get us into the solar.”

“Really? How do you manage that?”

“Perks of a royal commission,” she murmured, leaning in again.

“Alright then. Lunch tomorrow.”

The words were spoken against Theoric’s lips; she kissed her, hungrily, with an unexpected desperation.

Sigyn did not have extensive experience kissing, but even if she had she might have been taken aback by the nature of that kiss. It was almost a sexual act in and of itself; not foreplay, not a prelude to an act to come, but a perfect, dizzying and wordless carnal communication. It was complete and breath-taking even without being followed by sex – though some part of Sigyn wished that it were.

She hoped she wouldn’t regret this.

He really had thought about fucking her on the desk. She’d almost finished him just by the way she’d slid her fingers into his hair and stroked the back of his neck as he kissed her. How did she do that? It was an uncanny ability to soothe at the same time as enflaming. Whatever his apprehensions prior, in that moment he felt he had been entirely right to come to the archives that night.

He had debated at length over doing so. He had not intended to ever interact with her again, and his feelings about shifting from a plan were never straightforward. He enjoyed scheming, and loved to see a plan falling into place, but he was also mercurial, and was known to pursue whims.

So what to do about the unprecedented desire to return to her bed, which he was struggling to entirely push down?

And there was so much else crowding on his mind – he had still made so little progress sorting through what that trip into the archives had revealed to him about his infancy, his ‘family’...

Oh, for a moment of peace.

But what was peace for a god of mischief?

After a week, he cut through his own knot of indecision regarding Sigyn. It was not because he reached a conclusion through any logical argument. Rather, he inadvertently flared his own ire to the exclusion of all other sensations. And that was decisive.

Shaking his convoluted emotions like a terrier would shake a rat, a sardonic voice in his head had jibed, “Look at you. It’s like you never got rid of Odin at all, you do his work so well. What you want dangled before you and snatched away.”

In a rush his blood had boiled. He was on his feet before he knew it. He was the rightful king. His wants needed no justification. And they would not be denied.

It was true that his previous concubines had all been for a single night – perhaps more than one when travelling and therefore options were scarce, but only in such circumstances – but the term in fact tended to imply a lengthier association, did it not? That just so happened to suit him now. The sex was – however unexpectedly – exceptional, and particularly useful for serving his practical needs at the present time. And maintaining a concubine was a new type of game; it might offer some zest to his days.

He felt like he needed some zest at the moment.

It was, of course, still temporary. A passing occupation until he became bored. And he would become bored. Of course he would.

It was just a matter of time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut
> 
> Warning for mention of trauma and suspected past partner abuse

They did have lunch the next day. Sigyn was awed by the solar, which Theoric seemed to find amusing. She couldn’t fathom why; surely she couldn’t be _that_ familiar with it not to recognise how impressive it was?

The solar had been created by Odin’s father as an alternative to the Great Hall. It was used primarily for the entertainment of dignitaries – the Hall was too raucous to discuss diplomacy effectively, and the council rooms made the fact that it was a negotiation (or a threat, as was often the case) too overt. The solar let politics be served with canapes, just the King and his guest shut away from all others ears.

You could see why it would impress those dignitaries: the ceiling was a phenomenal dome of a mix of stained and clear glass, both letting the sunlight gleam in and making the room seem immensely airy, almost as if they were dining outside, whilst also filtering in hints of colour. The scene on the dome was all of Asgard, hanging in a sea of clear glass. At night you would see the stars through it. Even now, in the brilliant sunlight, it was an incredible sight to behold.

How exactly Theoric had gotten them in here Sigyn couldn’t begin to guess, and she clearly wasn’t saying. She just smirked and tapped her nose slyly when Sigyn asked. Perhaps with the royal family in shreds – Queen and Prince dead, the heir to the throne turning his back on the title – the Allfather hadn’t had the stomach for the room and had offered it up for trusted members of the household to use. There was no way of knowing. But Sigyn definitely suspected Theoric’s connections went deeper than she’d disclosed so far.

The lunch was already spread lavishly across the table when they entered. There wasn’t a server in sight, but it must have taken a whole team to lay this out. Another sign that Theoric had some weight within the household. And the meal was, like the picnic, unbelievably good.

“You’re really going all out to impress, aren’t you?” Sigyn said.

“Perhaps. Although it is also not beyond doubt that I simply like to eat well.”

That was, Sigyn thought, almost certainly true, but she also sensed Theoric was trying to apologise for leaving with the impressive offering.

Whilst they ate, they traded questions about each other’s work. Sigyn found herself reflecting that Theoric was... _evasive_ was the wrong term – in large part because it didn’t give her skill at evasion enough credit. It never _seemed_ like she was evading; she answered Sigyn’s questions with enthusiasm and in detail, but somehow, she never actually gave anything meaningful. But Sigyn was already building her suspicions about Theoric. Something had evidently happened to her in the past that made her secretive, distrustful, and... well, whatever had been going on that night when she’d completely panicked. Sigyn suspected a bad experience, likely prolonged, with a former partner. She couldn’t fathom any details though, and she certainly wasn’t going to go fishing for them if Theoric wasn’t offering them. So she didn’t press, responded to what Theoric did tell her, enjoyed the back and forth they had.

Sigyn had been so fixed in her notion that Theoric was being careful, that she was doubly wrongfooted when Theoric suddenly said:

“When did you first recognise your... interest in him?”

“What?” A part of her thought that maybe she meant the translator of Elvish she’d been waxing lyrical about ten minutes ago, before the conversation had moved on. She had a lot of opinions about Lars Bragason, and particularly about how people tended to use his work – “I know it’s not my place to have an opinion about it, but _Norns,_ do you know how annoying it is to witness _yet another_ sniffy researcher consult his work like it’s a straightforward travelogue, not a loosely narrative poem by a man who probably never even spoke to an elf? It’s all well and good to _use_ Bragason’s work, I think he was well-intentioned in writing it, but the loss of context just...” – which had seemed to amuse Theoric. But no, that was not the _him_ Theoric meant.

“How did your fascination with Loki start?”

“You don’t want to hear about that.” She said it laughingly, but it was a veiled instruction. Theoric surely _shouldn’t_ want to hear about that. The fact that they were lovers who apparently both had some sort of involvement – wholly fantasy, on Sigyn’s part – with the same man was not the source of amusement to Sigyn that it seemed to be to Theoric. She didn’t understand why she’d want to talk about Sigyn’s feelings for him.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It just interests me. Do I need a particular reason?”

Sigyn sighed. Apparently this was important to her, but Norns knew why.

“Fine. It started when I first moved to the city. I saw him around a few times and, well, it’s hardly controversial to say he was very nice to look at.”

That final ‘was’ always got her.

“Mmm, certainly. Go on.”

“Did you ever notice he used to do all kinds of things purely to amuse himself? Apparently, when he was young he used to pull pranks a lot, but that was before I knew him. When I arrived, he still liked tricks, but it never seemed as straightforward as wanting to make others laugh. Sometimes it was... for attention, I suppose, though saying that makes him sound like a child, which he wasn’t. Sometimes it was a kind of flirtation, I think, trying to catch someone’s eye.” She half-suspected Theoric would jibe at her, asking if she were jealous, but she didn’t interrupt. “But often it seemed to be just for himself. Just for the fun of it. He’d make illusions of himself to interact with people, and I’d see him still sitting at his desk, delighted that whoever it was didn’t realise the Prince Loki they were talking to three shelves over wasn’t him at all.”

Theoric raised an eyebrow. “ _That_ was what you liked? That he was powerful and bored?”

“It was the way he’d do things just for his own amusement. And it seemed like he really needed the laugh. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Something about the way he lit up. There were other things to it, of course. I got to watch him working in the main library or the archive once or twice and... it was really something to watch. That razor-sharp focus. And, well, you know, the infamous caustic wit, dark smiles, trouble-making...”

“And undeniable physical attractiveness.”

“Yes, that too.” She decided to risk it. “What about you?”

“My peculiar blend of caustic wit, dark smiles, trouble-making and undeniable physical attractiveness?”

“No, I mean what’s your story with him?”

Theoric’s mouth curled into a smile of genuine amusement. “You really think he and I were lovers?”

“Isn’t that why you want to memorialise him?”

She seemed to be mulling something over. She looked briefly... wary. Guarded.

“No.”

“Why, then?”

“Because sometimes I hated him,” she said slowly. Her voice was firm though. “Everyone else hated him, and sometimes I hated him too. But I don’t want to hate him. Not now. I don’t want anyone else to, either.”

Sigyn was so taken aback by that that it took her a minute to register that Theoric was waiting for her to respond.

“Why did you hate him?”

Theoric smiled wryly. “You were blind to all the many ways in which he was dislikeable. Despicable, even.”

“I know some of it was very bad. But I never thought anything he did was unforgivable.” Had she ever admitted that quite so bluntly? The closest she had come had been to the Allmother, but then it had been about the Queen’s feelings and not her own.

“You’re very forgiving,” Theoric said.

“Not everyone would agree on that. What did he do to you?”

Theoric’s gaze sharpened into a familiar humour. “Determined it must be personal, are you? Believe we had some lovers’ quarrel?” Her teeth flashed gleefully. “Do you get off on thinking about us together?”

That tactic of hers might well have been designed to disarm Sigyn, but she didn’t waver. She simply said, “You know I don’t. Stop evading the question.”

Theoric rolled her eyes, as though her fun had been spoilt. “Fine. There was no lovers’ quarrel. He didn’t do anything to me personally, whatever you may think. But I was close enough to him to see what he was, and what he wasn’t. He fell short of what I wanted him to be. That was why I hated him. It...” She licked her lips. “I may have been... unfair.”

“And now you want to... make amends?”

“Something like that.”

Sigyn paused. Then, “Are your standards still so high?”

She shrugged. “Possibly. You needn’t worry – you surpass all expectations. Insufferably so, really.”

“And maybe you’re being kinder.”

Theoric’s mouth twisted, though she smiled. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Sigyn pulled her down and kissed her. It felt as easy as breathing.

No one, except perhaps Sigyn herself – and maybe not even her – would have expected this of her. But there was something about Theoric, something utterly indescribable that made this kind of lust possible. She wanted it to resemble courtship, yes; but Sigyn very definitely wanted sex.

Theoric murmured against her lips, “Done eating, are you?” There was a huff of a laugh there, but also an undisguised heat.

“The food, yes.”

Theoric did laugh then, that erotic husky sound, and she tugged Sigyn into her lap.

“No one’s going to come in, right?” Sigyn asked, bracing her hands on Theoric’s shoulders.

“Would it add piquancy if I lied and told you we could be disturbed at any moment?”

“No, it would distract me.”

“Oh, we don’t want that. No, we’re perfectly alone. An order has to be given by me for the table to be cleared, so we have as long as we want.”

“Good,” Sigyn replied, kissing her again.

Drawing back, eyes burning, Theoric husked, “I want to taste you.”

The instant Sigyn nodded she was being lifted up, seemingly effortlessly, and set down on the edge of the table. Theoric knelt between her thighs. There was a reverence to the way she rucked up Sigyn skirt. It was a slow uncovering, inch by inch, her lips trailing after the hemline to brush the newly exposed skin. Then Theoric’s fingers were mapping the journey in reverse, drawing Sigyn’s underwear down her legs.

And then Theoric’s mouth was working her into a frenzy. It was a slow beginning, languorous and teasing, until she added her fingers. Then it was all contrast, a steady thrusting whilst her tongue lapped, light and rapid, at her clit. Sigyn was glad her legs were over Theoric’s shoulders, as her knees were shaking.

She clamped her thighs tight round Theoric’s head as she tumbled over the edge, clinging to her as she cried out. The second she began to come back to herself, she loosened her grip, worried Theoric might have felt claustrophobic, but no: Theoric was rocking back on her heels to smugly wipe her mouth – not with the back of her hand, but with her fingers, so she could languorously lick every last trace of Sigyn up, never breaking eye contact.

Sigyn stood on shaking legs and said, “Now you sit.”

There was some wryness in Theoric’s expression, but she moved to obey.

“And take those impossible trousers off first.”

“Impossible?”

“Do you paint them on?” Sigyn huffed, laughing and breathless, tugging at the belt.

In three neat (and highly flamboyant) movements, Theoric kicked off each boot and swiped her trousers off. It seemed an impossible feat, but there were her boots, standing together, and her trousers folded beside them. 

And then Theoric perched herself on the edge of the table.

She knelt, palms caressing Theoric’s knees as though they themselves were erotic. She brushed her lips over Theoric’s legs, ruffling fine, dark hair, lightly running her tongue over lean muscle. Theoric shifted and stifled a moan. Sigyn felt her cross her ankles against her shoulder blades and she smiled to herself. That felt like progress.

Theoric cupped the back of Sigyn’s head, long, clever fingers threading into her hair. She didn’t try to move her, but Sigyn was sure that the knowledge that she could if she wanted to helped. That felt like progress, too. With her hand in her hair, Theoric would accept or refuse what Sigyn offered; a big leap from ‘muscling through’. She stroked Sigyn’s scalp.

From their previous encounter, Sigyn had come away with the sense that Theoric loved to be kept guessing. That seemed to be corroborated when Sigyn set about establishing rhythms only to break them – flicking her tongue over her clit to delving her tongue inside of her to a slow, languid lap to sucking firmly. Theoric shifted and groaned. She murmured praise, instructions not to stop, pure filth. She was getting less coherent, and that seemed to be driving her to try and say more. Sigyn loved it.

She slid her hand up Theoric’s toned stomach, beneath her shirt, to massage her breast. Theoric jerked against her again and gasped her name, her fingers clenching in Sigyn’s hair, but still not moving her, just holding on to her – as though she needed that grip to ground her.

Theoric had been close for some time. If Sigyn were more experienced, she might have tried to play with that closeness, to dance with it, as Theoric did for her – she had a sense Theoric would like that. But she needed more practice for that. And she had a suspicion this was part of Theoric’s tension: that she was shying away from pleasure.

“Darling,” she murmured against Theoric’s mons, lips brushing, kissing, “let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm was spectacular. The word sounded exaggerated, but he meant it. He almost folded over on top of her as he came down from it, head drooping. She gave a breathy laugh and reached to kiss him. He tasted himself on her lips.

He found himself seeking her out whenever he had the time to spare. Nothing wrong with that – fornicating was a pleasant way to spend time. And if they were doing more than just fornicating in their encounters, well – he had a varied appetite. It was alright.

He even met one of Sigyn’s friends – accidentally, of course. He’d been taking Sigyn away from the city to _dine al fresco_ , and they had happened to pass this Ingrid as they went. He’d seen her size him up; she hadn’t attempted to hide it. He thought he’d passed muster: charming, feigning unease to give the sense that he knew this was an important meeting unprepared for, all of that.

Yes, things seemed to be going well.

Except...

Except he wished she weren’t calling him Theoric.


	7. Chapter 7

Theoric had been true to her word about seeing her more; she made it a habit of turning up at the archives during Sigyn’s shifts. She did seem to be doing actual research – she’d come with specific, well-selected requests for materials, and would sit working with them for some hours, focused and diligent. (What did it say about Sigyn that she found that very attractive?) And then it was as though a change in the winds had come, undetected by Sigyn, and Theoric would be up on her feet, moving to her, either lustful or eager to talk (either inevitably led to sex). Woe betide if Sigyn was in the middle of something – Theoric would vie for attention, murmuring pure filth, hands wandering (or pointedly _not_ wandering) until Sigyn abandoned all else. Sometimes Sigyn deliberately slowed down what she was doing when Theoric started that, laughingly rising to the challenge. It was unspoken between them that they both enjoyed that push and pull.

On this particular occasion, it seemed the attention Theoric wanted was not – at least in the immediate – carnal.

“What are you doing?”

She was standing over Sigyn’s desk, looking upside down at Sigyn’s notebook. Before Sigyn could respond, Theoric reached down and took the notebook so she could study it. She turned the pages slowly, staring at the book in fascination.

“They’re calculations for a scrying spell,” Sigyn said.

Theoric’s eyes left the notebook for Sigyn’s face. “Why are you working on a scrying spell?” 

Her expression was unreadable. No, not unreadable: you could read polite curiosity there, but Sigyn knew there was something else, too. It was so hard to know how people would react to this. And Theoric could be unpredictable at the best of times. She would have appreciated some indication of the response she would get.

_Well,_ Sigyn thought, _it was always going to come up at some point. Now’s as good a time as any._

Keeping her tone as casual as possible, eyeing Theoric closely for her reaction, she said, “I have precognitive dreams.”

Theoric’s jaw worked, but Sigyn still struggled to decipher her exact expression. “Precognitive dreams?”

“Yes. It means –”

“That you dream the future.”

“Yeah.” Well that was the first bridge, the one of definition, crossed.

Theoric was silent. Her eyes were flicking busily over Sigyn’s face, as though making a rapid analysis.

“Go on,” Sigyn said. “Ask me whatever you want to know.”

She sat down in the chair Sigyn now left by her desk for that very purpose. “I suppose I have less a specific question and more a general curiosity about how it works, what you see, how you direct it and so on.”

Curiosity was alright. She could manage that.

“As to how it works, the short answer is ‘randomly’. I still have normal dreams, collections of subconscious things scrambled about, and it doesn’t feel clearly different to normal dreaming, which makes it very hard to identify. It’s not the font of knowledge the fables would have you think. I can’t choose what I dream about, it’s just whatever comes. I don’t have to be present in the dream – as in, it could be the future somewhere that I would know nothing about – so they often aren’t verifiable.”

“You can’t control it at all?”

“No one can instinctively. It’s just about the least ‘useful’ form of magic going. Theoretically you can develop some control over it through practising scrying. But scrying is _hard_ , especially when you have no innate gifts for anything but the dreams. And it’s arcane, and very little-researched on Asgard. Ideally, I’d go to Vanaheim for training – they have actual experts there – but that would cost money I don’t have. The Allmother did what she could in terms of pointing me towards methods to improve it –”

“You met with the Allmother?”

“Yes, sometimes. She helped me where and when she could, but there always seemed to be some constraint on her. In hindsight, I wonder if she was worried about what I could learn about Loki’s origins if I became too adept.”

Theoric exhaled slowly and began to drum her fingers absent-mindedly on the table, deep in thought.

“Theoric?”

Her gaze refocused quickly. “Apologies. That’s a fascinating suggestion. I can’t say I’m well informed on the subject, but your insights are very interesting. And potentially useful to my work.” She shifted in her seat, angling herself closer to Sigyn. “You were saying you have no control over what you dream about, or even any way of knowing if the dream is prophetic?”

She nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever had an actually useful dream in my life.” 

“What have you dreamt about?”

“Don’t laugh, alright?” she said. “I discovered I had the ability because I had a vivid dream that my father came home with an absolutely ancient horse that looked like a cow – black and white patches. I told my mother this very excitedly; I was so young I was convinced _all_ dreams were real. She called it ‘wishful thinking’. But my father had gone out early that morning to the fair, and...”

“He brought back the horse?”

“Without consulting anyone. He’d gone for some bolts of cloth. It was exactly the sort of thing he’d do, of course, but the detail was what stood out. Then I started having more dreams like it...”

It turned out to be the longest conversation Sigyn had had about her dreaming in a very long time. She told Theoric about her truly precognitive dreams (“I was the talk of the town all winter, because I knew the snow would come early; I saved a lot of animals from freezing in the fields by insisting the barns needed to be opened up...”); dreams she had wanted to come true (“I was _so convinced_ I could fly if I just ran fast enough. All I got were scraped knees and a ripped skirt...”); the ones that were pure nonsense (“And not only could the tree walk, he carried a raccoon around on his shoulder...”). Theoric was a receptive audience, seeming to hang off Sigyn’s every word.

There was, however, one dream, which Sigyn strongly suspected had been prophetic, which she did not breathe a word of to Theoric. The dream she had had about Loki after he fell from the Bifrost.

She hoped that she was wrong about it; that it had just been her frightened, grieving mind. She would never forget that dark, shuttered expression the Allmother’s features had settled into when Sigyn told her of that dream. It was oddly similar to one of Theoric’s own looks, now that she thought of it. Or was she imagining that? But then, on the Allmother it had been mingled with the conflicted hope Sigyn herself had felt. They neither of them wanted him to suffer; but they wanted a sign that he was alive.

The Allmother had never confirmed nor denied what Sigyn had seen when Loki was returned to Asgard. Sigyn clung on to the hope that the dream had no basis in reality. That Loki had simply become unfortunately entangled with someone with an army and a mission of conquest. Because the still, desolate space of which she had dreamt, the laboured breath, the sheen of sweat on sickly skin, that voice, those hands... _Please do not let him have endured that._

Loki felt like she had... not slapped him, not stabbed him – no, there was no physical assault that could be compared to this. He knew betrayal intimately, but even that was not the right term for this. She had not betrayed him; it would surely have been easier if she had. He couldn’t even say that she had been concealing the revelation from him; the fact that it had never come up before now was perfectly natural. (He did not question his own persisted deceptions and omissions by comparison.) Nonetheless, how in the Nine and all that was beyond it could he have seen this coming?

_Fucking Hel._

He had not at the time given much thought to the occasional notes in his mother’s appointment book of ‘meeting with SG.’ She was the Allmother, she met with a lot of people, and that was her standard way of recording things. Nothing in the appointment book revealed what was discussed. He’d assumed it was gowns, menus, maybe the kinds of diplomatic relations Odin found too tedious to carry out himself. But SG stood for Sigyn Gefiondottir. And they had discussed Sigyn’s powers of augury.

_Yes Sigyn, a masterful Seer would be a considerable danger to Loki, what an interesting thought..._

_Fucking fucking Hel._

What the Hel was he supposed to do? How much did this change? There was a definite risk from her now: her powers could reveal that he was alive. The question was how viable the risk was.

She could not control her dreaming, she said. That meant it could only be inadvertent. What could she dream that might reveal him? A future in which he was revealed by Thor?

Loki didn’t want to think about that. Because sometimes, when from all the noise in his mind an eerie silence settled, he found himself wondering if some part of him was just waiting to be caught. If, deep down, he wanted that.

No, the important matter, the question at hand, was whether Sigyn actually represented a threat of discovery beyond the level he faced every day.

It was, he knew, absurd that he was even thinking about this. It would be easier to just get rid of her. His energies should be going towards finding a way of disposing of her cleanly, efficiently, and with an easy-to-frame perpetrator ready lined up. But that simply wasn’t going to happen. Because apparently – _fucking fucking fucking Hel_ – he wanted her here.

He looked at her. Looked closely. The tilt of her chin as she spoke; that expressive mouth shaping the story she was telling; the way her hair ensnared the light.

_You could be my downfall_ , he thought. _And you are all mine._

He reached for her. She cut off her story to laugh. “Done listening, are you?”

“I am listening. I’ll just listen better if I’m closer.”

She gave him a look full of laughter. She’d been apprehensive at first about how he’d react to her abilities, he’d seen that. But now she was at ease. His mind was still whirling, but at this moment he wanted to drown it out with the drum of his heartbeat.

“I’d like to go first this time,” she said, tugging perfectly on his hair.

“Go first at what?”

“Don’t play innocent. You know perfectly well what you’re angling for,” she grinned.

_“Angling?”_

“Yes, angling. It’s one of your great skills.”

“Do I take it ‘go’ means to be the one pleasuring? Is that what you are so evasively requesting, Sigyn? To pleasure me?”

“Yes.”

He brushed his fingertips over her cheek. It wasn’t that previous consorts hadn’t pleasured him; they most certainly had. But there was something about the quality of Sigyn’s focus on him... He’d had many sexual partners who did as he told them; he had never before had one who sought and attended to his needs so, who found pleasure in his pleasure to such a degree.

They ended up on the floor. She knelt between his spread legs, sucking on her index and middle fingers, eyes shining. She pressed right up against him as she slid her hand into his breeches, brushing her wet fingers over him. She kissed him as she fingered him, tasting his moans and mingling their accelerating breaths.

_I should kill you_ , he thought as she fucked him, as he looked into her rapturous eyes. _I_ _should obliterate you before you can do any damage. But I won’t let anyone lay a finger on you. Except me, to do this._ And he rolled them over so he was on top, licking hungrily into her breathless, laughing mouth.

He kissed her when she came; it meant he didn’t have to hear her say a name that wasn’t ‘Loki’.

Afterwards, he rested his head against Sigyn’s breastbone, in the space between her breasts.

“I see why you do not do this casually,” he said.

“Oh?”

“You’re so... affectionate.”

He felt her shift, but he stayed put, so she could only see his hair.

“I suppose I am, yes. At least, I am to you.”

“Your affection is quite singular. At least, to me.”

“How so?”

Why was he having this conversation? _Because this is what I do, I suppose. Poke at things I shouldn’t. Pick at scabs._

“I have often disliked affection heretofore.”

“Disliked affection?”

He could hear it in her voice. He was aware that Sigyn believed he – or rather, Theoric – had suffered some kind of traumatic experience. He had never been quite sure how he felt about that. He was undeniably affronted by it, but the convenience of it for explaining things away wordlessly was beneficial. It was clearly where her mind was going now.

He said, “The affection I have received from previous paramours has been saccharine, overbearing and above all ill-directed.”

“That’s not the same as not wanting affection,” she said slowly. What an incredibly _Sigyn_ thing to say. Infuriating and decidedly pig-headed. Utterly inexplicably, he found it arousing.

He didn’t answer. He brushed his nose against the side of her breast to make her laugh and to get them off the subject. _The subject you broached_ , him reminded himself.

As she started to lazily braid his hair, he let the full tangled reality of the situation settle upon him. He felt like he was back in the circle he had been trapped in before: this could not last; the very idea of it was inconceivably stupid; and yet he did not want to relinquish his grip on her.

How long until this all came crashing down about his ears? And what could he do to prevent that?


	8. Chapter 8

Whilst the kingdom believed Odin Allfather to be peacefully abed, Loki had sat down to write. It was like drawing blood. And he kept missing the vein.

He wanted to inscribe a truth, something staggering that would make the dull droves of Asgard finally understand. He wanted, in some part at least, contrary to every impression of him, to tell the truth, if only for himself. That was what the archives should have done for the play. But he could not.

He wanted to be able to tell his own story, blessedly shielded from the shame of doing so. It should have been an opportunity to say what he might have said in his trial, had he had one. (He would not have said it, of course. He would not debase himself so. But Theoric writing it for the mouths of actors, himself seemingly utterly and completely removed from it... It should have been perfect.) But he could not.

Every time he tried his hand at honesty, at shaping the words of his story – a story locked away, a story derided, a story forgotten – it was as if his pen refused to co-operate. Or his hand itself. Or his treacherous mind.

He read back over the scant page he had written and could hear Sigyn’s voice, strident, aflame, the voice he had first caught in that fatal proclamation, _Loki was not a monster_.

“This is a melodrama.” That’s what she would say. “Theoric, you’ve written his story as a melodrama. Even a _comedy_.” Well, perhaps she would be more tactful. Perhaps she wouldn’t be, if it really made her angry.

Sometimes it was touching, the strange protectiveness she clearly still felt for his memory. But in this matter, it was infuriating. Because how could he possibly explain to her? He couldn’t even explain it to himself.

He would try to tell his own story, the truth as he knew it, and somehow the words came out... slanted. Smirking at him.

He tried to write what had happened on Svartalfheim. It had seemed like a good scene to build on, something the Asgardians would actually respect, but as he tried to form the circumstances of what had happened into words... How, how could he possibly tell that? He had meant to die. He thought he had died. He had looked into Thor’s eyes and he had felt the closest to him that he had felt in so, so achingly long. He tried to write that moment, that crystalline moment in his memory, and it came out padded, wrapped up, distorted through kaleidoscopic snippets of other snippets of their lives, conversations that never happened, until it was grandiose and, yes, melodramatic. 

It was the only way he could get the story out. The only way these truths would reveal themselves to others, even others who could never know just what kind of truths they were. His story: truth, but refracted.

It was safer to give laughter to what was not quite him than to look, head-on, upon his own reflection.

But Sigyn wouldn’t understand that. Or – and this was far more troubling – she _might_ understand it, in theory, if he, Loki, explained it to her. She would at least try to understand. But there was no way that Theoric writing it could look anything but disrespectful and dismissive. 

He felt his hand being squeezed.

“Are you even watching?” Sigyn hissed, laughter in her eyes.

“Unfortunately,” he whispered back.

They were watching a play. A matinee that Sigyn could catch before her shift started in the archive, and which he could fit around kingly duties by pleading Odin’s need for repose. He was doing that a lot lately.

The play was appalling. It was typical Asgardian fare: messily choreographed battle scenes that probably lead to real injuries; gratuitous fake blood; and an utterly insufferable pair of pining lovers separated by the would-be-bride’s father’s disapproval of the young man, whose family history was unknown.

“He’s going to turn out to be the long-lost son of the father’s blood-brother, isn’t he?” Loki had groaned within the first five minutes. That was bad enough in itself; what was worse was that whilst he was evidently right, the characters, even nearly two hours in, still had no idea themselves.

The only entertaining thing about the whole debacle was witnessing Sigyn’s increasingly futile attempts to control her laughter as the show degenerated before their eyes. He wasn’t sure if he should be troubled by that reaction. So much was troubling now.

He still hadn’t made a firm decision on what to do about the revelation of the precognitive dreaming. He told himself he was observing, biding his time, making plans. But the planning simply circled round and around, on and on, never-ending spirals with no definite actions.

And there was so much else going on, that was the trouble. There were the issues with the play – which were, of course, issues with him, but not to dwell on that – and endless frustrations in the management of the realms... Sometimes he was plagued by questions of what Thor would do in his place. He didn’t know. Did the answer matter? He didn’t know. And, perhaps worst of all, there were the lurking, sharp-edged thoughts of his mother. Distracted, sometimes, he would make a mental note to ask her a question – and would have to abruptly remind himself that she was _dead_. And that, of course, was why he couldn’t ask her about any of the things he’d discovered in the archives.

He had considered giving Theoric a mother likewise lost in the attack on Asgard. He could have spoken to Sigyn about it then. Well, some of it. Carefully concealed, as everything was. But it was too risky. Some distance needed to be maintained. Although Loki was Theoric, Theoric could not be Loki.

_That_ was bothering him too, of course. He suppressed it as much as he could.

“Are you alright?” Sigyn asked as they left the theatre – at last blessedly free of that eye-watering production.

“Suffering horribly after that tripe,” he said, “But I suppose I shall endure.”

She tilted her head. “You’ve seemed distracted today.”

“I’m having some difficulties with the play. Hit a snag in the draft,” he said. An easy response, and at least somewhat true.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’ll work itself out – is doing other things helping?”

“Well it’s at least reassured me I can’t create Asgard’s worst performance.”

She laughed. Then she said, “Do you want to talk over the issue?”

“No,” he said, “thank you. I always draft entirely alone – I’m very particular about the process.”

“No surprises there, I suppose,” she said, rather affectionately. “But if I can do anything...”

“I’ll tell you, of course. But really, Sigyn, it’s fine. Nothing out of the ordinary in this work.”

She nodded up at him, then slowly twisted his hand in hers. He saw what she was going to do. He really shouldn’t find it so affecting when she did things like this, but _Norns_. It was the flash in which he saw the desire spark in her, and in the same breath she would move on it, reach out to seize it with both hands. But always, always that brief, serious moment where she observed him, always ready to divert if there was any issue. 

She pulled him down so she could place a kiss just under his ear, right where she knew he was sensitive. Then that quick registering that he approved. Then she shifted her weight to lean against him and kiss him on the mouth. Glorious.

They kissed on the street corner. There was a promise in the kiss, that, despite its relative chasteness, made it utterly indecent. It made him pull her back to kiss her again.

She sighed softly when he finally pulled away. “Have a good evening,” she murmured, arms still loosely round his neck.

“And you. Think of me.” His forehead, of its own accord, found hers to rest against.

“Always,” she said laughing, and somehow all the more sincere for laughing. “Perhaps I shall doodle your name in my notebook for good measure.”

His throat constricted. It was a joke, of course. But implicitly it was a burning reminder that it was not his name that would be on her mind at all. _Theoric Theoric Theoric._

And there was _the thought_ , the awful thought, in his mind unbidden.

The steps he must take to return to the Allfather’s chambers – turning, as Theoric, down one of a number of carefully selected alleys where no one would see him, becoming invisible there to make the journey to the palace, balancing the conservation of his energy with meticulous timing and attention – had all become so instinctive to him now that he did not have to relent from his blackening thoughts throughout the whole complex journey. He was fuming by the time he was able to sink onto the Allfather’s couch as himself again.

It was not the first time the thought of telling her the truth about himself had slipped, will o’ the whisp, into his mind.

The first time had been with his nose pressed to the juncture of her throat, both of them sweaty, hearts pounding, in a post-orgasmic haze. She had been murmuring ‘Theoric’ as she held him, hands touching everywhere, so overwhelmingly tender, and a treacherous little voice, the kind that always got him into trouble, whispered to him, “Tell her.” On that occasion, he had been able to pretend the thought was some confused, rambling result of very satisfying sex.

The second time her head had been buried between his legs. His hand had sought hers, as though he needed it to ground him, as though he may lose himself if she didn’t hold onto him. “I wish she knew,” was the thought then, naked as the pair of them. That instance was a little more shameful to him, as it has not been merely the mad coaxing of a tormented mind – he was so used to such things – but an actual, unguarded expression of desire. But still, who can be blamed for what thoughts they silently hold whilst receiving cunnilingus?

This third time, however... It was more absurd and harder to dismiss. It vexed him. He flung himself back on the couch and covered his eyes with his arm. When would he stop facing dilemmas regarding this woman? Such conflicting wants?

He wanted to push her away. He wanted to keep her. 

He slowly drew his arm away from his eyes, letting the light filter in.

It was only upon the third time reading the letter that she had just received that Sigyn started to believe it. Then she read it again, just to be sure she’d understood. It seemed impossible. Too good to be true, honestly. ~~~~

She had been offered a fully-funded sabbatical to properly investigate her powers of prescience. There was no specified time limit. As long as she needed to work on developing her precognition, determining how best she could focus it, with specialist aid constantly available. It was beyond perfect for her.

Except that it was on Vanaheim.

That, of course, should not be an _‘except’_. Vanaheim meant the best support and resources she could possibly have. But now, it very definitely came with a snag. That realisation ground her to a halt.

Sat at her table, breakfast still laid in front of her, the crisp parchment the messenger had delivered gripped in her fingers, the thought that had come out of nowhere now unignorable.

_I’ll miss her play._

It wasn’t just the play, of course. She would miss her play because she would be absent from Theoric’s life for that time. Theoric would be absent from hers.

Was it reasonable, the strange roil of emotions that brought up? She liked Theoric very much. She could tell Theoric liked her, too, however much more guarded she may be about it (Theoric could be very affectionate, in her own way). But they’d known one another a matter of months. The level of attachment Sigyn felt...

There had been no ‘I love you’.

But the problem was that the whole sentence, as far as Sigyn was concerned at least, was “There had been no ‘I love you’ _yet_ ”. She could feel the seedlings of it, growing all the time.

That was probably why she felt so uncertain now. It was not like parting with a lover of centuries-standing; that would have been a different unpleasant emotion. This was the worry that parting from Theoric now would mean the end for them.

She didn’t want it to end. They were still growing together.

She had to talk to Theoric.

Before that, though, she needed to go to the market.

Finding Theoric was not always straightforward. She had some lodgings at the end of a maze of streets, towards the city’s outskirts, but she hardly ever seemed to be there. She also had a tendency to wander around, Sigyn knew – she’d never met anyone so well acquainted with the nooks and crannies of Asgard’s streets, frequently taking Sigyn to places which she’d say she “stumbled across years ago”. But Sigyn’s first thought when seeking her was the desk in the main library that she had told Sigyn was one of her favourite workspaces, and which, if Theoric could be found, was the place Sigyn most often found her. It was there she hurried to now.

It had been a good thought. Theoric was curled over a manuscript (which seemed to be nothing more than a list of scenes at the moment, giving nothing away) in the secluded corner desk. She looked up when she saw Sigyn and smiled at her. It felt strange, finding her like this; it always did. It was absurd, but whenever they met unarranged like this and she’d see Theoric’s smile upon seeing her, it reminded Sigyn that, however private she remained, Theoric did want to let her into her life. She clutched the letter tighter.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Something serious?” Theoric asked as she rolled up her parchment and stood up, ready to leave with Sigyn before even knowing what she had to say.

“Sort of, yes.”

They went down to sit by one of Asgard’s many water features, a complicated fountain in an inner courtyard. It was quiet here, a good place for privacy. They perched on the lip of the fountain and Sigyn handed Theoric the letter.

“I received this this morning.”

She watched as she read it, trying to interpret her response, but she was inscrutable. Slowly Theoric lowered the letter and looked at Sigyn. She smiled; just a hint wolfish, and clearly delighted.

“Sigyn, this is incredible news.”

“It is,” she agreed, sincere and not hiding her enthusiasm. She also didn’t hide the shadow of uncertainty. “It’s the sort of opportunity I never could have dreamed of. How my name even came up I don’t – You didn’t say something, did you?” she said suddenly.

Theoric chuckled. “If I had that sort of influence at court, I assure you I would have done. But no, it was nothing to do with me. I suspect there was some initial proposal started by the Allmother decades ago which has only now finally been seen to. That’s usually how bureaucracy goes, in my experience.”

Sigyn only nodded. When she didn’t say anything more, Theoric said, “You don’t seem quite as overjoyed as one might expect.”

“I really am happy about it, but... Here.”

She pulled her purchase from the market out of her bag and held it out to Theoric. It was a heavy candle, cream-coloured wax carefully engraved with a strip of gold, green and red runes.

Theoric looked at it for a moment that was probably very brief but seemed to Sigyn to stretch on for whole minutes. Then she took it.

“I really should expect such foresight from you,” she said, sounding almost moved, and Sigyn finally allowed herself to exhale a breath she had been pretending she wasn’t holding.

She had reassured herself it wasn’t presumptuous. They’d been seeing each other for months now; it wasn’t unreasonable to make a move to maintain contact whilst she was away. But it had still been a leap nonetheless, uncertain if Theoric might not see this as a natural end point.

But she cupped Sigyn’s face and bent to kiss her, slow and deep. As though she were memorising her.

“I’ll apply for a travel permit back to see your play,” Sigyn said when they parted.

“I don’t care about that,” Theoric said, keeping a hand on the back of her neck, keeping her close. “Just... Do write.”

“That’s why I got the candles.”

A pair of candles bound to one another could be used to transport messages from flame to flame, even across worlds. It was ancient magic, rather sneered at nowadays, but it was reliable.

“I can school you in the art of the erotic epistle,” Theoric said, stroking the nape of Sigyn’s neck.

“Experienced in that, are you?” Sigyn asked with a smile, catching her fingers in the fabric of Theoric’s shirt.

“Not to my satisfaction.”

Sigyn reached up for a handful of her hair and pulled her into another kiss.

“I’ll see if I can visit you,” Theoric said suddenly against her lips.

“Please. And I’ll apply to come back here, too. I’ll miss you.”

“It said you depart in a week?”

“That’s right.”

“Mmm. That should give us time to build to a proper send-off.”

The head archivist had made clear, in his usual, quietly judgemental way, that he did not approve of Sigyn’s absence being granted. Especially not as the thrust of the letter was that a place at the archive should be open to her when she did return. But there wasn’t much he could do about it; with the Allfather’s seal on the bottom of the document, it was law.

Describing to Theoric that night the look on the head archivist’s face as she handed said letter over was a moment of pure joy.

Sigyn did still have to attend to her duties in the archive in that week, but she was happy to do so – she did like her job, for all the unsociableness of the hours. And Theoric continued to turn up to work, and then to vie for Sigyn’s attention, night after night.

Sigyn did everything in her power to make best use of that last week. She went to her parents, and saw Ingrid for lunch several times. In the evenings she was with Theoric.

Theoric had taken the news with a calmness that Sigyn hoped was reassuring. But there was also something erratic about her behaviour that was more worrying.

At their final lunch together, Sigyn had said to Ingrid, “It feels as though she’s simultaneously digging her claws into me – like a cat does when it won’t be moved – and trying to force herself to let go.”

“Where do you even get metaphors like that? In what way is she digging her claws in?”

“I don’t know. It’s just how it seems.”

“Do you think she wants you to reject the offer?”

“No. Not at all. She’s seemed so genuinely enthusiastic about it for me.” This was the truth. Theoric was always eager to talk about what Sigyn would get out of her studies on Vanaheim. She could hardly have been happier if she had arranged the trip herself.

“In that case,” Ingrid had said, “you can’t really blame her for some conflicting behaviour about it. It’s not exactly ideal timing for both of you. Sounds like she’s trying to toe the line between not wanting you to go because she’ll miss you and wanting you to go because it’s the right thing for you. Which is exactly what you’d want: your partner loves you and supports you. Don’t overthink it.”

Sigyn looked into her drink. “It hasn’t come up in so many words.”

“That she loves you?”

She nodded. “But it’s still very early; we’ve not even known each other more than three months.”

“Definitely early. But...” Ingrid screwed her face up pensively. “You I’ve always said are the ‘fast and hard’ type. And I got the same impression from her, honestly. Not that I really know her, but. She is intense.”

“You think so? She can be so... guarded.”

“You always talk about her like she’s cautious, not uncaring. Maybe she’s guarded _because_ she feels something, not because she doesn’t. See where your letters take you. _Don’t overthink it_.”

Ingrid’s words were particularly on her mind in her last evening with Theoric, as they had dinner together in Sigyn’s kitchen. Theoric had seemed restless at first, hardly able to keep her hands still, alternating between touching Sigyn – stroking her hair, squeezing her hand, caressing her skin – and absorbing herself in private, nervous movements: twisting her fingers, fiddling with her cuffs, crossing and re-crossing her legs. But now a calm seemed to have settled over her. She was charming, attentive, and at ease. Sigyn thought she was trying to make the most of their last night together.

They certainly did make much of their last night together: as Sigyn’s head sank to the pillow at last, she felt tired to her very bones.

Theoric chuckled. “Did I wear you out?”

“How do you even _do_ that with your tongue?”

“I would be more than happy to teach you,” she purred, lying down smugly beside her. “And I do believe that learning is achieved through a careful balance of observation –” she swiped her tongue across Sigyn’s throat, no doubt tasting the salt of her sweaty skin, and swirled it expertly around her earlobe in a clear reminder of what she’d been doing to her clit mere moments before, “and practice.”

Sigyn took her cue. She imitated the gesture as best she could – less graceful, but equally enthusiastic. And then when she’d done, she grazed her teeth over the path she’d travelled and bit down on Theoric’s shoulder. She liked to prove she could be innovative as she learnt.

Theoric’s groan was pure sin.

Sigyn kissed where she’d marked by way of apology – though judging from how Theoric murmured her name like a blessed incantation, she didn’t think an apology was required.

“When do you have to leave?” she asked as she nestled in against Theoric, getting comfortable in spite of the disruption she knew was coming.

“I don’t.”

Sigyn held her breath. Theoric didn’t stay the night. She was nice about it, even apologetic sometimes, which Theoric professed to despise; but whatever the time, however good the night, she always left rather than sleeping.

“I’ll spend the night. If that’s alright with you.” Still nuzzled into the crook of Theoric’s neck, Sigyn couldn’t see her expression, and her tone was as guarded as she’d ever heard it. But she could feel the tension in how she was holding herself. Was she nervous?

“Of _course_ I want you to stay. I always want you to stay.” She shifted onto the pillow so she could see Theoric’s face.

Theoric said nothing, but traced her fingertips up over Sigyn’s cheek. She’d had moments like this before, occasionally; moments when her touch was reverent, her look almost disbelieving. They normally heralded a moment when she’d pull back, realign herself, as though she’d felt like her control was slipping. This time, though, she wrapped her arms round Sigyn, rolling her over with what seemed no effort at all, so that Sigyn’s back was pressed to her chest, and murmured, “Sleep, darling.”

Sigyn was usually rather fickle about doing as Loki bid her in bed. She’d oblige requests, certainly, and would give him anything that he needed – even when he was too stubborn to ask for it – but anything resembling an order was usually only followed according to her whims. And her whims tended to be subversive. He would roll her underneath him, and she would hook her legs round his so that his position didn’t afford him the advantage it might have done. He loved it; it was never an advantage he was seeking.

On this occasion, however – perhaps because she really was that tired from their highly strenuous activities, or maybe because his instruction aligned precisely with her own wishes – she did sleep. Calmly, comfortably, surrounded by him.

He did not sleep. Rather, he watched her.

This had been a carefully calculated risk. He was no stranger to sacrificing a night of sleep. This night was worth it. He’d admit that, if he would admit no more. Though it was only to himself he could admit anything.

She slept soundly, curled securely in his arms. Would she feel so at ease if she knew who he was? Maybe. But likely not.

He knew the solution he’d come up with was short-term and would likely make more problems for him later. But nothing about his life at the moment was built to last. Thor would come back, or Odin would break free, or Sigyn would foresee his downfall. His days had always been numbered.

Perhaps the charm would wear off when she was away from him. Perhaps it wouldn’t. He just needed some space to think. Without surrendering her entirely just yet. The removal to Vanaheim need not be permanent; he could recall her, if he wanted to.

Her initiative in getting the candles had been... touching.

He knew exactly what he was grappling with. The lesson that he must cut out his own heart, because what made him feel was what could hurt him. His time ruling Asgard had been a period of addressing which lessons he wanted to unpick and discard. He was still uncertain of this one. Sending Sigyn away was the only way to allow himself to make that decision with any semblance of calm.

It wasn’t dissimilar to allowing Thor to gallivant around the Nine Realms in blessed ignorance of his survival.

How would she feel, if she knew it was _Loki’s_ arms she lay in?

Sigyn stirred. She rolled over, narrowed her sleepy eyes at him. “You’re thinking very loudly. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll miss you,” he found himself saying.

She smiled, so soft and warm. “I’ll miss you too.” She rolled over fully in his arms so she could embrace him. “You’ll just have to pester the Allfather to let us visit one another.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He bent his head to start kissing her neck. It ended the conversation effectively. And delightfully.

They stood in the Bifrost observatory, toe to toe. Over Sigyn’s shoulder, Loki could see the vast stretch of space through which she would hurtle. Through which he had... He tried to avoid looking at it.

He looked into her eyes instead. He told himself it was because it was better than looking out there. He knew it was because he didn’t want to miss this.

She looked like she was trying hard not to cry, though she was smiling at him.

“I know this is a bit pathetic,” she said, clearly knowing he’d seen her eyes were wet.

He shook his head. “Not at all. But you know I will write to you.”

He knew he meant to keep that promise.

She took his hands. Whose hands were the ones shaking?

“If you two aren’t going to kiss, can you get a move on?” griped the replacement Gatekeeper he had appointed, a burly soldier with a shaved and tattooed head. Serge, or something equally ridiculous. He wasn’t a patch on Heimdall, but sadly Heimdall’s efficiency was precisely what made him such a risk. A king must make sacrifices, so his father had said.

What exactly had that meant for Odin?

Serge or – no, Skurge, it was Skurge – Skurge was certainly a sacrifice Loki was having to make. Not stabbing him in that moment was an even greater one. He had to remind himself that Theoric was no use to him if she were under murder charges.

He did not, however, restrain himself from making firm eye contact with the new Gatekeeper and saying, voice low and steeped in promised violence, “Would you care to repeat that? Because I can have you out of this observatory and into a pillory in less time than it takes you to polish your bare skull.”

Skurge blinked slowly. He stood mute for a moment, apparently hefting possible responses, before he finally said, “Yeah well, alright. But you really can’t stand around here all day.” He did turn his back though.

Sigyn leant up on her toes, her smile ghosting over Theoric’s lips as she murmured in delighted amusement which rather surprised Loki, “You really can be terrifying when you want to be, can’t you?”

“Oh yes,” he replied, tilting her head so their lips met at last.

It was a fitting farewell kiss. Savouring, appreciative, unhurried, and, at its core, promising more to come, whatever the delay.

“I’ll miss you,” Sigyn said, resting her forehead against his.

“I’ll miss you,” Theoric breathed against Sigyn’s mouth in the tiny space between them. Sigyn squeezed her hand gently as she moved back, not yet ready to totally sever the connection.

For just one, wild moment, she wanted not to go. But the look on Theoric’s face, the firmness, the (dare she say) dedication, the (she certainly would say, though only to herself) stubbornness there, all calmed her. Whatever hadn’t been said between them – and it was, she reminded herself, very reasonable that things hadn’t been said between them – the fixity of Theoric’s look made her confident that this time apart would not be a decisive separation.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Sigyn only looked away from him for the briefest moment, to get herself in position. She was still looking into his eyes as, to the background noise of Skurge’s muttering and grumbling theatricals, the Bifrost blasted her away from him.

He felt like some part of himself had gone too. He did his best to stamp on that feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one finished! I'm working on the second part/sequel/conclusion now. Not totally sure when it will be up, but it is underway and I'm excited.   
> Comments and kudos are so so appreciated, and thank you for reading! Hopefully see you again for the next part!

**Author's Note:**

> In the comics, Loki disguises himself as a soldier called Theoric to woo Sigyn. 'Theoric' means relating to Ancient Greek public spectacle, including theatre. I may have taken that to its extreme conclusion in this re-imagining.


End file.
